《Exiled to the Future [Space Opera | Kingdom Building]》


 Prologue

    James walked through the deck, his boots thumbing against the polysteel plating. It was only 0400 hours according to the ship¡¯s clock, though an outsider would hardly notice this fact. Much like the submarines of old, diving deep into the oceans were no sun ever shined, a spaceship ran on 24-hour ¡®days¡¯ only because the squishy little humans inside required it to.


    The main corridors of the Vanguard¡¯s Hymn are never full, but they are always active. Crewmembers move to and from assignements, meals or the few hours of relaxation they get. Some tense up as James walks by them, but most simply nod their respects and carry on. Fifteen years ago, the sight would¡¯ve irked James to no end. War tends to shred all those little inefficiencies of mind and spirit.


    As he waded further and further away from the main corridors, the people around him started looking different.


    Each area of a warship was dominated by one or two specializations. The engine room and reactor were full of engineers and technicians, some of the smartest people in the galaxy. The weapons bays were full of gun and torpedo crews, experienced men and women who could nail a fifty-ton asteroid with a coilgun from a hundred light-seconds away.


    This area was different. Sheltered behind an armored door much like the ship¡¯s bridge, and guarded by a pair of marines at all times. The bridge might¡¯ve been the heart of the ship, but this was the heart of the fleet.


    Both marines stood at rapt attention as he approached, snapping off precise salutes with the casual competence of veterans.


    ¡°At ease.¡± He said, saluting them back.


    The senior of the two, an ebony-black sergeant in her field uniform, pressed a button on the wall to her right, speaking through the intercomm. ¡°Admiral for the bridge.¡± She said.


    The armored door hissed open, revealing the interior of the battlecruiser¡¯s flag bridge.


    Consoles of every kind lines the walls. Unlike civilian electronics like high-opacity holographic screens and motion-detection keyboards, which could function out of a hand-sized metal brick, the Akrites military preffered solid hardware. Holographic displays were used only when the situation demanded it, such as 3D navigation and sensor analysis.


    One such example sat at the center of the room. A table-sized holographic display, as usual surrounded by a handful of high-ranking officers.


    ¡°Admiral on the bridge.¡± The lone marine on the inside announced, knowing the fact through the handy intercomm.


    Every console tech and officer in the flag bridge turns around in sync.


    ¡°At ease.¡± James sid immediately, allowing the crew to return to their tasks.


    ¡°Ceremony must never be placed above function. Instead, it must used to reinforce the proper way.¡± One of his academy instructors had explained to the class, back when he was still studying for his commision.


    As he approached the holo-table at the center of the room, the officers surrounding it turned to salute.


    ¡°Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.¡± He said, saluting back.


    ¡°Good morning, Admiral.¡± They replied in unison, a little tradition that that had formed through the war.


    Each and every single one of the officers he¡¯d known for quite some time, largely thanks to how sluggish personnel transfers and promotions had become during the last few years. The opening stages of the war had crippled the duchy¡¯s ship-building operations, doubling or tripling the time it took to build a new hull. Without a growth in capacity and a moratorium on retirements, the upwards mobility among the ranks of officers had gotten from bad to worse.


    ¡°How is our course, Michael?¡± He asked the lanky blonde commander standing opposite to him. Commander Michael Smith, his operations officer, was a man married to numbers. He was cold and calculating, oft-lacking in the social department but sharp as a razor when it came to tactics and strategy.


    ¡°Stable.¡± The commander replied, highlighting the parabolic arc of the flotilla¡¯s path to the jump point.


    They¡¯d passed by the last major stellar body more than a week ago. The icy planetoid had long been abandonned in favour of the rich inner asteroid belts of the Columbus sysem. Now they were diving straight into deep space, with only an ¡®escort fleet¡¯ of Vogdi warships to keep them company from an entire light-hour away.


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    ¡°We¡¯re continuing to deccelerate at six-zero gravities of acceleration from our initial cruising speed, about two-point-five from the rimward jump point. At our speed and decceleration I believe that we will arrive at the jump point in twelve standard hours, barring any mobility-related issues.¡±


    James nodded, satisfied at his ops officer¡¯s report.


    The sooner they left the system, the better. Baron Vogdi might¡¯ve promised him and his fleet safe passage to the edge of the system, but he would be a fool to trust the words of a betrayer.


    Plus, the sooner they left, the less morale would drop. He hated to see it, but the reality was that many people were¡­apprehensive about starting a new life five a hundred light years away, especially among the civilian ships of his impromptu colonization fleet. Once they arrived to their destination, these worries ought to lighten, if not dissappear entirely. A one-way trip would take more than two hundred years, meaning that any would-be returnees would return to a society half a millenium in the future compared to the one they left.


    Of course, that hardly mattered to his core of loyalists. The best they could hope for if they attempted to stay was a swift death¡­but the Baron¡¯s colosseums were always in need of fresh blood. The mere thought of his legacy being reduced to slave-warriors and pleasure workers made him shudder.


    Eager to do away with such dark thoughts, James turned to his chief of staff. Commander Harriet Noriega was a born realist, further tempered by the unsavory necessities of a war for one¡¯s survival. Though she¡¯d served him for most of the last three years, he hadn¡¯t seen her let her raven hair down once, instead opting for a neat bun.


    ¡°How are our pre-cryo preparations, Harriet?¡±


    The commander cleared her throat.


    ¡°They are proceeding smoothly. The Diligent Pioneer, Blacksmith¡¯s Bane and the Hephaestus have locked down most of their heavy equipment, and will be ready for long-term inactivity in four to eight hours. All ships of the merchant marine report they are ready to put the civilians in cryosleep. I¡¯ve just spoken with every captain of the squadron, and I¡¯m please to say all ships ready to enact deep cryosleep protocols.¡±


    ¡°Very good. Have all civilians and non-essential personnel enter cryosleep, and make sure we won¡¯t have any issues making our jump into void space. Keep up the good work.¡±


    +++


    Nearly twelve hours later, the time had come. They were only minutes away from entering the ¡®jump point¡¯, a perfect ¡ªalbeit invisible¡ª three-dimensional sphere were the system¡¯s gravitational waves aligned in a way that allowed interstellar travel at FTL speeds. Its area was small enough that ships had to slow down from standard near-c cruise speeds in order not to miss it.


    ¡°All patched in and ready for the announcement, admiral. Every ship reports succesful hyperdrive synch with the Vanguard¡¯s Hymn.¡± The communications tech reported, looking up from his console seat.


    ¡°Very well. Inform all ships to prepare for imminent hyperspace jump. All warships are to maintain standard jump defense protocols.¡±


    ¡°Aye aye, admiral.¡± The lieutenant acknowledged, turning back to his console.


    Within no more than thirty seconds, a klaxon siren sounded from speakers throughout the ship.


    <Attention, all hands. Make preparations for hyperspace jump. Set condition Zulu. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill>


    Almost immediately, every light turned red, bathing the flag bridge in crimson.


    <Hyperspace jump in thirty seconds>


    ¡®This is it.¡¯ James thought, looking at the holo-table. One final jump, and after that two hundred years in deep cryo as the last loyalists of his father¡¯s dynasty, his dynasty, sailed to their new home. And from there¡ª


    ¡°Vampire, vampire. Missile inbound!¡± The sensor watch-stander shouted in alarm, just as a red dot entered the holographic display¡­with more close behind.


    ¡°Counting one¡­five¡­seventeen¡­twenty-five, no, fifty-two missiles! Impact in fifteen seconds!¡±


    James cursed, tracing the origin of those missiles. The damned Vogdi had betrayed their word again. He was an idiot to believe them, idiot! They were going to kill them at their weakest, with their shields disabled and weapons unloaded in advance of the FTL jump.


    ¡°Comms, patch me through to Captain Jenkins!¡± He shouted.


    Not two seconds later the face of the Vanguard Humn¡¯s commanding officer came into view on the table¡¯s solid-state monitors.


    ¡°¡ªofficer, fire counter-missiles, empty the tubes!¡± He shouted at somebody out of the camera¡¯s angle, his face solid stone.


    ¡°The tubes were just unloaded, sir! Ten seconds until I¡¯ve got birds ready!¡± The off-camera sailor shouted, his report steeped in fear.


    ¡°Engage with lasers, damn the range!¡±


    ¡°George!¡± James shouted, grimacing. If the man didn¡¯t listen to him in the next moment, they¡¯d all be stardust.


    Jenkins¡¯ eyes turned to the camera for a split-second, enough for James to grab his attention.


    ¡°Engage the fleet hyper, now!¡±


    If they stood and fought, with their tubes unloaded and their shields down, those missiles would render them into atoms. Escape was the only option; they had ill-reason to stand and fight against the thrice-damned Vogdi ships. With the fleet hyper capabilities already synched to the Vanguard Hymn¡¯s own¡­


    The captain¡¯s eyes shined in understanding, and he turned away from the screen oncemore. ¡°Nav officer, get us into hyper!¡±


    ¡°Sir, the capacitors are still¡ª¡±


    ¡°Now, damn it!¡± Jenkins shouted, veins popping out of his forehead.


    ¡°Engaging hyperdrive!¡±


    Jame¡¯s teeth felt itchy, his mouth tasting like stardust and the color pink.


    The feeling remained only for a moment, and then it went away. The fleet was now cruising through the lower bands of hyperspace. They were safe.


    Sobbing softly, a junior officer muttered. ¡°I can¡¯t believe we survived¡ª¡±


    For a moment, the inertial compensators failed. A mere trillionth of a second, during which he felt his stomach bang against his ribs like a wrecking ball. He wanted to scratch every bone in his body. Warm liquid dripped from his nose, the drops falling on his lips tasting like iron.


    ¡°Oh, what the fuck¡­¡±


    They were right in the middle of a battlefield.

 Chapter 1 - Who are these people?

    ¡°Shields collapsing!¡±


    The orbital¡¯s control station shook just as the report left the shield tech¡¯s mouth.


    ¡®We¡¯re doomed.¡¯ Governor Katrina Polk realized, her callused hands holding the armrests of her seat in a death grip.


    Their railguns ¡ªthose whose rails still hadn¡¯t melted from overuse¡ª were running out of slugs to fire at the pirates. What few missiles remained on-board were trapped by collapsed silos and wrecked, shoddily-built auto-loaders. Even their trusty laser banks were dying out, capacitors built by the lowest of low builders either shutting down or catching fire after constant wear and tear.


    And now their shields were gone.


    ¡°S-Status on the pirate ships?¡± She said, trying and failing to keep her voice steady. She was an administrator, for fuck¡¯s sake, not a naval officer!


    ¡°Down to half their original number, but they won¡¯t stop firing!¡± Her operations officer, an ex-mercenary she¡¯d managed to hire out of retirement, banged her fist against the plasteel surface of her console. ¡°The two biggest freighters are still operational, though one¡¯s shields are flickering.¡±


    ¡°Focus fire on that one!¡± Katrina shouted in desperation. ¡°We need to¡ª¡±


    RRRRRRR


    The control room rumbled and groaned, then a crushing noise came from beyond the sealed bulkheads of the chamber.


    ¡°I-I can¡¯t¡­fuck!¡± The weapons officer, a woman, no, a girl¡­a girl no older than twenty shouted.


    ¡°What happened?!¡± Katrina demanded, errors popping up on her own screens.


    ¡°We just lost half our railguns! The entire western arm is cut off, I¡¯m getting nothing!¡± She shouted, madly typing away at her keyboard.


    As the people around her voiced their panic and frustrations, Katrina felt the weight of the colony on her shoulders grow bigger and bigger.


    Without its shields the station had a single armor belt of iridium-steel alloy between its vulnerable internals and the pirates¡¯ weapons. No station meant no defenses and few chances at independence ¡ªeconomic or otherwise¡ª. If these pirates didn¡¯t capture them, some other raving fleet would.


    ¡®Should I surrender now? Maybe¡­maybe their terms won¡¯t be so bad.¡¯ The governor thought, though deep inside she knew the pirates¡¯ words and actions would be worlds apart.


    She might very well be signing the entire colony¡¯s passage into generational slavery; with any luck her grandchildren might escape, though if the stories held any truth in them she, like every other leader in the colony, would be dead the moment those pirates stepped foot on colony grounds.


    ¡®I don¡¯t want to die¡­¡¯


    ¡°New contact!¡± The sensor operator exclaimed, and Katrine turned her gazed towards him just in time to witness his face contort in an expression of pure horror.


    ¡®What fresh hell just came upon us?¡¯


    ¡°New contacts, many contacts! Counting three, five, nine¡­fifteen contacts!¡± The man exclaimed, color draining from his face ¡°Sweet nova, they¡¯re right on top of us!¡±


    +++


    In ten years of war, James had witnessed many things, most horrible.


    Once he¡¯d seen a Vogdti battleship, its bridge and steering shot to hell, ram into a multi-megaton asteroid at a measurable percentage of the speed of light. The impact had momentarily paused an ongoing battle as each fleet¡¯s sensors were blinded by the emissions. Another time, one of the duchy¡¯s own cruisers had been hit by a forgotten missile-mine while undergoing underway refueling. Both the tanker and the warship itself had gone up in flames, while the closest ship ¡ªan aged frigate¡ª had its sensors slagged by the thermal emissions.


    War made for the strangest images, from rogue bomber-drones firing on friendly ships to orbital stations collapsing into their planet¡¯s atmosphere, firing their weapons at full capacity even as atmospheric drag cooked the crews alive.


    Yet not once in his entire life had he heard of, let alone commanded, a fleet that had jumped directly into the crossfire of an ongoing battle. But life was a series of first times, and James very much intended to keep living.


    ¡°All ships to maximum shields, bring up your point defenses and jam these bastards to hell!¡± He ordered, eager to react before the enemy could. But who were these people? ¡°Sensors, what the hell did we jump into?!¡±


    Data streamed into the holo-table, but not as fast as the staccato rhythm of the sensor officer¡¯s report.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got an orbital, three hundred kilotons, on starboard side. I¡¯ve got two active bogeys on the port side, estimate civilian hulls retrofitted for combat. Three more bogeys of similar profile, dead in the water, around them.¡±


    ¡°What do you see, Mike?¡± James demanded of the ops officer, who sat laser focused on the holographic map.


    ¡°Nothing identifiable, the hulls are not in our database and we have no reads on their weapons or sensors. I see nothing military; the retrofitted hulls aren¡¯t up to even mercenary standards and the station is equipped like a planetary defense orbital.¡±


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    ¡°A pirate raid.¡± James surmised, his shoulders feeling measurably lighter.


    ¡°Most likely.¡± Mike nodded, his expression unreadable as usual.


    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s mop them up.¡± James let out a sigh, though he was careful not to underestimate so-called ¡®home-brew¡¯ warships. Many a Vogdti warship had been destroyed by a rebel-made IED while flying through captured Akrites space. ¡°Get CIC to designate those pirates and the orbital as tangos one, two and three, respectively.¡±


    Punching in the appropriate code on his console, he shot out orders to his fleet.


    ¡°Cruisers and above, take out the pirate warships designate Tango One and Tango Two. All other warships, defend our civilians. Civilian vessels, all power to shields and stay put.¡±


    Curt acknowledgments returned almost immediately from his captains, who¡¯d likely come to the same conclusions he had. No daft man ever made it to ship command in the Akritan Navy.


    Before his warships could fire a single shot, the suspected pirates opened fire with lasers and missiles. Their tactical icons went from pink (suspected enemy) to bright red (confirmed enemy) instantly. His warships¡¯ point defenses spurred to life, laser clusters and even a handful of kinetic CIWS batteries slagging the sluggish missiles. At these ranges, the birds barely had time to launch out of their tubes before point defenses turned them into expanding clouds of gas.


    The Vanguard¡¯s Hymn began singing, secondary batteries surging into rapid-fire mode in order to put mass downrange as fast as possible. The deck rumbled lightly as enemy railgun slugs struck their armor belt; there was no dodging at this range.


    ¡°Damage report.¡± James demanded.


    ¡°Frigate Stormcrusher and destroyer Forever Salvation report light damage on their port broadsides. Combat effectiveness intact.¡±


    Then one of the pirate warships winked out.


    ¡°Splash one bandit.¡± Michael muttered.


    The armed freighter was now an expanding ball of gas and sand grain-sized debris. A direct hit to its power plant, breaching the fusion bottle¡¯s containment and vaporizing the hull with the power of a small star.


    The second bandit was already nigh-crippled, stripped of its armament and propulsion, and¡­


    Detonation.


    Another direct hit to the power plant: the second pirate ship was now a handful of space dust and a smattering of gasses.


    ¡°Aye, sir.¡± Michael nodded, punching in the comm codes for the damage control center on-board. Akrites marines served double duty as both void infantry and auxiliary crew, handling shipboard battle damage while the proper sailors fought the ship.


    ¡°And get me a line to that orbital, as soon as possible.¡±


    +++


    ¡®What in the stars did I just witness?¡¯ Governor Katrina thought, staring her sensor screen.


    A massacre, there was no better word to describe the shivering display of military power. One moment, the pirates ships were pummeling her station without mercy. Her shields were down, weapons inoperable and morale at catastrophic lows. The next thing she knew, an entire battlefleet had jumped straight into the crossfire.


    The pirates had reacted in the worst way possible, firing on the mystery fleet. Within seconds Polaris¡¯ unexpected protectors had returned the gesture tenfold. Lasers, kinetic PDCs and, most curious of all, coilguns had been fired at the pirates by the new arrivals. Needless to say, the raiders had been pummeled into oblivion.


    Of course, after dealing with the pirates her mysterious benefactors had turned to the orbital and the colony planet-side. Their communications protocols were straightforward albeit unusual.


    ¡°Governor, I¡¯m being instructed to patch you through to the commanding officer of the fleet.¡± Her comms officer said, reading through the information on her console.


    Katrina nearly flinched, but managed to keep her composure. ¡°Very well. On my screen.¡±


    ¡°Patching you through.¡± The officer warned, just as her console¡¯s main screen lit up.


    The man on the other side of the transmission was unmistakably young. His hair shined a golden blond, and his face was unblemished and untouched by the passage of time.


    ¡®Is this really their CO?¡¯ She wondered


    Then she noticed his eyes. She saw that familiar thousand-yard stare of a man who¡¯d ordered men into battle and death. She¡¯d seen that stare in the Mercenary Guilds, from captains whose ships had arrived beaten, burnt and nearly destroyed. Men and women who¡¯d succumbed to means best left untold to survive.


    ¡®Just who are these people?¡¯


    ¡°This is Duke James Akrites. Whom do I have the pleasure of conversing with?¡±


    His accent was regal, yet lacking in the fruity frivolities of the Core World¡¯s one-percenters. A strange combination, but hardly out of place in a naval setting. War tended to grind away at frivolities and facades, as she¡¯d so terribly experienced.


    A duke, though? That was entirely out of place. What the hell was an actual noble, and a high-ranking one if she wasn¡¯t mistaken, doing in bum-fuck nowhere? Those types tended to become statesmen and diplomats¡­though there were cases of ambitious people quite literally buying a commission from their homeworld¡¯s navy.


    ¡°Greetings, Duke Akrites.¡± Katrina replied. ¡°I am Katrina Polk, governor of the colony-planet of Polaris.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s good to meet you, Governor.¡± The duke smiled apologetically. ¡°I am terribly sorry for rushing, but could you please send us whatever astrographic data you have, as well as any recent news you might have about the greater area?¡±


    ¡°I¡­can.¡± Katrina replied. Questions could come later; now she had to get into the good graces of the armada orbiting her colony.


    Turning to her comms officer, she said. ¡°Send them every map and survey we¡¯ve got, and all the news we¡¯ve received this year. You¡¯ve got five minutes.¡±


    ¡°Right away, ma¡¯am.¡±


    Returning to face the Duke, Katrina smiled weakly. ¡°My communications officer is preparing the data packet as we¡¯re speaking, it shouldn¡¯t take more than five or ten minutes.¡±


    The young noble nodded. ¡°Thank you. We are experiencing some¡­navigation problems.¡± He shrugged. ¡°On to more pertinent matters. I suppose those two ships we just splashed were pirates or raiders of some sort?¡±


    ¡°You are correct.¡± Katrina nodded. ¡°With the Hegemony and the Republic focusing more of their navy to their borders, policing patrols in the fringe have been¡­sporadic, and mercenary contracts are more expensive than ever. These¡­scum, they are taking advantage of that.¡±


    She noticed that the Duke seemed rather¡­.confused? Alarmed?


    ¡®Did his fleet just come out of the unexplored regions?¡¯ She wondered, looking at the meager data they had on all the ships.


    She blinked. This was¡­wow. Star-shit, this Duke was either the richest bounty hunter in the sector or the luckiest scavenger in the universe. That was a mobile fuel refinery! They had an entire antimatter refinery just for themselves.


    Those were usually only held by state navies, and incredibly expensive to build. Last she heard, the Republic had spent some ten to twelve billion aurum on procuring just one of the fuckers. Compared to that, a fully armed system defense corvette was two to three hundred million!


    The Duke nodded, and Katrina blinked as she held back the urge to drool at all the ships in his fleet.


    ¡°I see. One less pirate is at least one more life saved, I¡¯m glad we were of some help.¡±


    Silence reigned for several awkward seconds until Katrina took the lead with a bow. ¡°I would like to thank you for saving us, Duke Akrites. We are¡­in your debt. If there¡¯s anything we can do, we would be glad to do so.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Governor. For now, we will maintain orbit above¡­Polaris while we deal with some technical issues.¡±


    ¡°Of course, stay as long as you like.¡± Katrina nodded. A friendly armada stationed above her colony for free? She couldn¡¯t possibly ask for better protection.

 Chapter 2 - This changes nothing

    Before the war, James remembered reading several books about the life back on ancient Terra. Back before they discovered the mere existence of electricity, when light was provided by burning animal fat and ships were made of wooden planks, hemp rope and iron nails.


    During this ¡®Age of Sail¡¯, man could rely on very few methods of long-range communication, and an admiral in command of a fleet had to gather all his captains aboard the flagship so he could formulate and discuss plans, give orders and generally perform his duties. James imagined it must¡¯ve been quite a bother.


    Fortunately for him, technology had long since caught up with that particular need, even before the very first use of nuclear thermal rockets over a millenia ago. Teleconferencing had matured generations ago, to a point where captains could hold multi-fleet conferences from the chair of their own ship¡¯s conference room. Each participant¡¯s person was holographically simulated as sitting in one of the other chairs, while in reality they were sitting in their own chair on-board their own ship.


    While long-distance conferences ¡ªspanning more than a light-second¡ª were still confusing if not downright impossible, the method worked perfectly for communications within a fleet formation or even the orbit of a planet.


    ¡ª


    ¡°Let¡¯s get this meeting started.¡± James said as he sat down, taking in the view of over a dozen captains, staff and experts assembled into a single meetings. Even after hundreds of meetings like this, the view felt a daunting at the beginning of a meeting. The sombre atmosphere made it no better.


    ¡°First, the important stuff. What casualties did we incur during the crash-translation into hyperspace, and the engagement just prior to us gathering here? Commander Noriega, you have the floor.¡±


    His chief-of-staff cleared her throat lightly.


    ¡°I¡¯m please to say we didn¡¯t lose anybody, fleet-wide. The emergency jump caused some banged up heads and the like, but the worst I know of are a few mild concussions. As for the¡­engagement, we have twenty-two navy sailors in the infirmary with mild injuries and three with severe, all of them thankfully stable. I¡¯m happy to confirm no civilians came to harm from the pirates¡¯ fire, though a few freighters had their paint-jobs scorched.¡±


    Everybody in the conference smiled at the report.


    ¡°That is fortunate. I¡¯d like to congratulate all warship captains and crews on their quick reaction immediately after the jump. Bravo, ladies and gentlemen.¡± James clapped lightly, his gesture echoed by the civilian and fleet auxiliary vessels¡¯ commanders.


    Some of his captains preened, others blushed lightly with embarrassment. Each one took the compliments differently, but James was happy to see that they all looked measurably better.


    ¡°Now, on to some more theoretical stuff. Lieutenant Commander Vasquez, I¡¯d like you to answer us a simple question. Where are we?¡±


    Every other face in the room, flesh or digital, turned to look at the astrogator of James¡¯ staff. Vasquez was a short, stocky and bearded man with curly maple hair, singling him out as a descendant of the so-called ¡®Venesians¡¯. A special strain of humanity that according to history had been created for the sole purpose of colonizing high-gravity worlds.


    During the Age of Fusion, when humanity had swiftly colonized nearly every rock in Sol, several groups of people had self-modified themselves and their descendants so that they could lay claim to high-gravity worlds without the planet-empires of Terra and Mars knocking on their doorstep. The first high-gravity colonies had sprung up on the planet of Venus, and thereafter the short, stocky and hardy people that were raised in or for worlds like Venus were called Venesians.


    Ever since the hyperdrive was invented and humanity welcomed the Age of Light, the necessity of such colonies was reduced. The human race found ample planets that could be terraformed or directly inhabited by standard-strain humans, and so few venesians were raised. Genetic treatments were provided to Venesians who left their birthworlds, so that their children would achieve normal heights. It was not only a matter of quality of life but also health, as the side-effects of the Venesian splice-treatments often resulted in mutations and shortened lifespans.


    Unfortunately, such treatments weren¡¯t entirely effective. Sometimes, dormant genes resurfaced in children. Children like the lieutenant commander. Some had psychological issues their entire life, while stood with pride as living examples of their ancestors¡¯ tenacity against gravity itself.


    Vasquez didn¡¯t give a flying fuck.


    It help that he was married to his work; you didn¡¯t need to be two meters tall to get a doctorate in gravitational physics.


    Even under the gaze of two dozen captains and officers, the lieutenant commander remained entirely unfazed. With a few taps at his tablet¡¯s controls, a hologram appeared over the conference table. It showed the entire spiral of the galaxy in all its beauty; an artwork that encompassed all known life and history.


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    Then the three-dimensional image focused on the Orion-Cygnus Arm, highlighting borders and major colonies. James had seen this map many times before in his life; the so-called Map of Humanity.


    ¡°Our Imperium, as well as the rest of humanities¡¯ known polities, reside within the limits of the Orion-Cygnus arm of the galaxy. Though it is unknown how much of the arm we have colonized thanks to the speed ¡ªor lack thereof¡ª of intra-polity communications, it is almost certain that we have not crossed the gaps between galactic arms. Such a journey would be enormously, prohibitively expensive.¡±


    The lieutenant commander took a breath, turning his eyes up from his tablet to look at the other participants of the conference. The look in his eyes was no longer so¡­plain. It was curious, excited, afraid and terrified all the same. And that made James feel¡­afraid.


    ¡°It appears we have done so anyway.¡±


    The room was so silent you could hear a pin drop. Confusion, thought, realization and shock; facial expressions shifted faster than James knew was humanly possible.


    ¡°Please, lieutenant commander, elaborate.¡± He asked.


    ¡°Of course, milord.¡± The officer bowed lightly, tapping at his tablet.


    The map shifted, rapidly. The center of focus moved further spinward, crossing the starless rift between the Orion-Cygnus and Perseus Arms. And then it steadied over a rough circle in the midst of the Perseus Arm, its diameter almost a thousand light years.


    ¡°To the best of my capabilities, I estimate we are somewhere in this circle.¡±


    A sick retching sound came from one of the civilian captains, and the pale-looking man collapsed out of the camera¡¯s field of view. James felt pity for the man, but he would hardly stop such an important conference for a single captain of a freighter. No more than a few seconds later the hologram shifted, the captain¡¯s face replaced by that of his executive officer.


    ¡°Captain Ziegler, do you have a question?¡± James asked the veteran captain of the cruiser Circe, who¡¯d raised his hand during the civilian captain¡¯s unfortunate incident.


    ¡°I do. If we really are in the Perseus Arm, where you said no man should¡¯ve ever gone before us, then how come we are orbiting a human colony, after fighting and defeating two human pirate vessels?¡±


    Nods came from around the table. James raised his eyebrow at the astrogator, who seemed entirely unperturbed by their stares.


    ¡°That was the first thing I noticed, but a simple examination of several neutron stars answered the question. Running an interstellar polity anywhere from two to two thousand systems large requires accurate timekeeping. However, the length of a jump varies, with the limits of this variance extending exponentially with range. We can artificially decrease these limits with well-tuned hyperdrives and special components ¡ªsuch as those used on imperial messenger ships¡ª but not nearly enough to use messanger ships to synchronize time between two or more systems. So, we turn to pulsars, also known as neutron stars.¡±


    ¡°As a pulsar rotates, usually several thousand times a second, it emits radio waves that we can measure. With the right equipment and software, it is possible to accurately measure time whenever you are by simply referencing a specific pulsar before and after a hyperspace translation.¡±


    ¡°And you did just that, I imagine?¡± James asked.


    ¡°Quite so. In short, it appears we ¡®time traveled¡¯¡­¡± The astrogator quoted with his fingers. ¡°Roughly one thousand years.¡±


    ¡ª


    It took a five minute break and three replacements on the civilians¡¯ side for the fleet conference to continue. Everybody looked some degree of shocked, though the gulf between the civvies and James¡¯ navy captains was vast.


    Morale among the civilians was already terrible. Life in the system-capital of the duchy had been relatively alright until it wasn¡¯t, with the war feeling far away until Vogdi ships started jumping in from the hyper limit and burning towards the inner worlds, broadcasting demands of unconditional surrender.


    The navy captains, meanwhile, were more surprised than afraid. James felt little surprise as he looked at their faces. He¡¯d long come to terms with the Domus Pupillus system that his dynasty had enforced since before the birth of his grandfather. Many had criticized it ¡ªincluding himself, though never out loud¡ª but for all its ethical and moral failings it had kept the dynasty going for nearly four hundred years.


    A member of a ¡®normal¡¯ navy had a family, a hometown, something that he was protecting by serving. A member of the akritan navy, whether he be the lowest rating or the senior-most admiral ¡ªnot that there were any other than him that had survived the war¡ª had been raised, educated and trained within the embrace of the Ducal Youth Houses.


    Not everyone who graduated from the Houses ended up in the military, and not everyone who served in the military came from the Houses, but there was significant overlap. Graduates were also more often than not fast-tracked into officer roles, which ensured a chain of command from the lowest midshipman to the commander of the fleet that was loyal to the Duke first and to the Duchy second.


    The concept had sickened him as a child, but he¡¯d grown to understand its necessity. Loyalty and human ability were the only two things that had kept the Akreitan Dynasty truly competitive; its land was resource-poor, its commerce weak and its industries often kept isolated. The dynasty¡¯s role had been that of a wall, keeping the filth and scum that occupied the Uninhabited Zones to the Imperium¡¯s far north from entering.


    And now the Domus system was the only reason his fleet wasn¡¯t actively disintegrating in the face of total defeat, exile and the fear of the unknown.


    ¡°My liege.¡± Captain Jenkins raised his hand, the act inadvertently silencing any further whispers from the civilians. ¡°A question, if you¡¯d allow?¡±


    ¡°Of course, Captain.¡±


    ¡°What does this change, sir?¡±


    ¡°An excellent question.¡± James answered, chuckling.


    ¡°Our initial plan, as you all know, was to make a jump to NJ-99, an uninhabitable system where space-dust densities are uncommonly low. From there, we would¡¯ve put most of the personnel still awake into stasis and executed a sub-light maneuver through deep space that would see us arrive several centuries later in a colonizable system, light centuries away from the Imperium and the Vogdi.¡±


    Several people nodded along with his words.


    ¡°Currently, we are several hundred thousand light years away from the Imperium, and with so much time passed I couldn¡¯t say with certainty if the name Vogdi even means anything anymore to the common citizen of the Imperium ¡ªif it still exists¡ª. So I would say we¡¯re still far enough to start anew.¡±


    ¡°Yes, our environment might be different; we¡¯re not alone. But this changes nothing, ladies and gentlemen. We will rebuild, and we will rise out of the ashes stronger than ever before!¡±

 Interlude 1 - Freak Accident

    The akritan exodus fleet was a kaleidoscope of origins.


    Warships, from common frigates all the way to top-secret electronic warfare cruisers. Mobile factories, the last remnants of a small but venerable industry that had guaranteed the dynasty¡¯s independence from the megacorps dominating the imperial core. Civilian ships, from tiny messenger boats to enormous freighters.


    ADS Envoy was of the latter category, though ultimately far more valuable than the other civilian hulls. Because it wasn¡¯t a ship of the duchy, but the dynasty, much like the message boats.


    The ship itself was hardly important. It was of superior quality than the average freighter-transport hybrid cruising through imperial space, but it was the data and people on-board that mattered. The last vestiges of the dynasty¡¯s inner core, loyalists who would rather bite a cyanide capsule than be captured by the Vogdi.


    Along with the Domus Pupili caretakers and children on-board the ADS Embrace, the diplomats and bureaucrats of Envoy made up one of the most valuable -and loyal- demographics of those amongst the exodus.


    They were also the last of his family, even if barely.


    ¡°Is he in any pain?¡± James asked, looking at the gray-haired man on the other side of the armaglass window.


    The doctor looked at him straight in the eyes, and nodded slowly. ¡°I am afraid so. Minister Polanski-Akrites¡¯s arteries were subject to significant strain, and we cannot afford to introduce painkillers to such a weak cardiovascular system. That holds true for many of the patients.¡±


    ¡®Such a cold word, ¡®patients¡¯. Entire families reduced to pained expressions and minds in stasis¡­what did they do to deserve this?¡¯


    Truly, the universe was a cruel joker.


    ¡°Tell me, doctor, how can we prevent this¡­.travesty, from being repeated.¡±


    ¡°Prevention is¡­.impossible, for the foreseeable future.¡± The doctor replied. ¡°Hyperdrive-induced sensory overload isn¡¯t a disease to be treated. And while gene-sculpting has gone a long way from the dark days of the Venesian Program, we still haven¡¯t been able to strengthen the brain ¡ªnot without extreme side-effects¡ª.¡±


    ¡°But it can be¡­.mitigated, yes?¡±


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Correct. It is, in fact, already being mitigated. Hyperdrive shielding has been developed for this express purpose, all they way back before even the Imperium¡¯s founding by the First Emperor. But that hardly helps when powered off.¡±


    It was good, in a sense, that this had been as close to a one-off as one could get. A freak accident, thanks to a series of manufacturing flaws in the hyperdrive¡¯s circuitry that hadn¡¯t been spotted thanks to a slew of badly-written coding and chance. This wasn¡¯t supposed to be even remotely possible in realspace, because hyperdrives weren''t supposed to fire off without sending a ship into hyper.


    It appeared that the exodus was attracting one-off¡¯s like flies to shit.


    ¡°But the chances of recovery are high, yes?¡± James asked, his gaze falling on capsule after capsule. The infirmary had dozens of them¡­and they were all full.


    ¡°Correct, milord.¡± The doctor replied. ¡°The Envoy¡¯s excellent medical facilities and highly controlled environment allowed those of us who weren¡¯t impacted severely to respond to the incident quickly. All of them will make a full recovery, though the nature of their injuries require significant time. Most, months. Some¡­years.¡±


    James¡¯ smile grew bitter as the man concluded his explanation.


    Sure, the weight of a couple more losses -temporary ones at that- hardly shifted the weight on his shoulders after a decade of war. Yet to lose access to most of the family¡¯s survivors, clades of diplomats and bureaucrats¡­that was painful.


    ¡°Thank you¡­doctor, for your work. Do not hesitate to contact me and my staff if anything disrupts their recovery process, and keep me updated.¡±


    ¡°By your command.¡±


    ¡­


    With the immense number of casualties incurred, the Envoy¡¯s corridors were largely empty. Only the clang of his escorts¡¯ boots reached James¡¯ ears, the marine-raiders dressed in their full armor as usual. His trusted bodyguards had grown ever-more protective in the last few months, knowing their charge had become the focal point of the dynasty like no duke ever before.


    ¡°They¡¯re being taken care of by the best of the best, milord.¡± One of the marines spoke.


    James would¡¯ve recognized the voice anywhere, after so many years under the man¡¯s escort. Sergeant Wulfe commanded one of a handful of squads in I Company, his velvet-coated right fist¡­and his closest confidants.


    ¡°I know, sergeant. But would you not feel weakened, if one of your sharpest blades cracked on the eve of battle?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a man of diplomacy, milord, and stars willing I never will be. Yet even I know you¡¯re a capable diplomat; your father made sure of that.¡±


    The sergeant¡¯s words rang true. His late father had thoroughly drilled James in the diplomatic arts, and that training had helped him hold the duchy and its allies together year after year until the tide of ships and missiles ate them whole.


    ¡°We didn¡¯t lose the war for a lack of quality, Wulfe. One for one every bullet, marine, ship or missile of ours could outfight the Vogdi¡¯s three to one. It is our lack of quantity that spelled defeat, and I¡¯m not willing to see us fall to a repeat.¡±


    ¡°I trust in your judgment, milord.¡± The sergeant offered plainly.


    James nodded at his words.


    Accidents, like this distasteful incident, happened. But if he managed to balance quality and quantity correctly, his dynasty would be able to survive -and maybe even thrive- even as the universe continued its cruel jokes.

 Chapter 3 - Nova Roma

    It turns out that even during disaster, effective delegation can really rob a leader of things to do, especially in a place like Polaris. With less than two hundred thousand inhabitants, the colony produced less paperwork than a mid-sized company on the Republican Stock Exchange. The governor need only make the toughest decisions.


    With all the work delegated, Governor Katrina Polk was left examining the sensor returns of the Akritan Fleet. Only passive sensors, of course, because for all they¡¯d done to save Polaris, Katrina was in no mood to sour the mood by painting a warfleet with active sensors.


    Not that she needed to. The warships had active transponders and had docked in nearly the same orbit as the station, close enough that simple telescopes could spot details as small as a hatch on one of the cruisers.


    ¡°Cruisers my ass¡­¡± Katrina mumbled, equal parts frustrated and awed.


    A top-of-the-line Hegemony heavy cruiser was about six hundred meters long, and one hundred and forty kilotons in weight. One Peacekeeper-class heavy cruiser cost nearly two billion aurums to build, and a hundred million to operate for a single cycle.


    The ships had no real equal, as most cruisers were built five hundred meters long and a hundred and twenty kilotons heavy. The only ships bigger than a Peacekeeper were battleships, battlecruisers and the handful of dreadnoughts that remained in service to the major polities since the Rapture. Short of a capital ship, Peacekeepers were the worst thing that could knock on one¡¯s orbital doorstep.


    ¡®Until now.¡¯


    The ANS Whitefang was eight hundred meters long, weighed one hundred and sixty kilotons, and the Duke had two such ¡®cruisers¡¯ in his service. The three five hundred meter long ¡®Destroyer-Leaders¡¯ and the two hundred and fifty meter long ¡®Frigates¡¯ also had to be mentioned. And, of course, the one thousand, one hundred and fifty meters¡¯ worth of battlecruiser¡­


    Of course, battlecruisers tended to be sub-kilometer ships, and the one she was looking at was almost as big as a republican Senator-class battleship, but that fact apparently didn¡¯t matter to whoever had named these war machines.


    ¡°Where the fuck did you come from?¡± She whispered, thinking back on the blond-haired, amber-eyed young noble that had saved her colony without breaking a sweat.


    ¡°Uh, ma¡¯am?¡± A questioning voice interrupted her thoughts.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t¡­!¡± Katrina nearly yelped, before turning towards the speaker.


    Her secretary was knocking on the door of her office.


    ¡°Enter.¡±


    The young lady entered with her tablet in hand, her expression¡­strange.


    ¡°What is it, Joanna?¡±


    ¡°Well, the¡­uhm¡­the Duke has sent a message. Addressed to you, specifically.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Katrina promptly took the offered tablet, laser focused on finding the message recording. ¡°You can close the door behind you.¡±


    ¡°Yes ma¡¯am¡­¡± A slightly miffed secretary left the room, her hopes of a scoop dashed.


    It took only a few moments for her to find the message. No audio, no video, just plain text.


    {You are cordially invited to dine and discuss with Duke James Akrites, this evening at 1900 hours / six hours from now.}


    ¡°Eh?¡±


    ¡ª


    ANS Vanguard¡¯s Hymn flew alone in her parking orbit, a spear of dark gray metal, her broadsides decorated with rows of gleaming and glimmering dots.


    At first she looked like a model, like the ones Katrina had built during her childhood. The entire thing looked small enough that she could fit it in her palm, but as the pinnace drew closer the capital ship swelled and swelled seemingly without stop. From how she slowly turned into a proper ship; Katrina could¡¯ve easily mistaken her for a mere frigate or light destroyer at this range. And then she grew and grew, until she¡¯d reached the size befitting the name ¡®battlecruiser¡¯.


    From shimmering dots, her weapons bays grew into maws that could swallow the pinnace whole. Sensor bulbs, gravitic sensor masts and point defense arrays came into sharp definition. Five drive bells sat embedded deep in her rear hammerhead, surrounded by thick armor plating and a crown of shield generators.


    She was truly huge, more than a kilometer dedicated in its entirety to war. Katrina¡¯s eyes drank every little detail along the hull, sleek and arrogant by the very nature of her purpose. An ¡®assault battlecruiser¡¯, whatever that was supposed to¡ª


    Her thoughts broke off as the viewscreen turned black, the pinnace slowing down to maneuver into one of the battlecruiser¡¯s cavernous hangar bays. Seconds and then minutes ticked down as the shuttle docked.


    <Landing complete. Pressure green, oxygen green, temperature green. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Vanguard¡¯s Hymn>


    Sergeant Wulfe gestured something to one of the marine escorts closest to the ramp, who promptly got up and pressed a big, red button. In true marine fashion he slammed it with the side of his clenched fist instead of merely pressing it. Katrina smiled; marine culture tended to stay the same.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    A low klaxon blared, warning the pinnace¡¯s passengers of the descending ramp. It touched down on the bay floor with a low thunk.


    ¡°After you, ma¡¯am.¡± Sergeant Wulfe gestured down the ramp with an earnest smile, having taken his helmet off. Katrina nodded in acknowledgment.


    Already six of the marines had stepped down, forming two echelons on each side of the ramp. It made Katrina wonder just how much ceremony she¡¯d have to go through, hoping not to mess things up; she¡¯d heard nobles tended to be critical of a person¡¯s decorum.


    Wulfe walked in parallel with her, Paula and Crane flanking her while the last three marines brought up the ¡®rear guard¡¯.


    With shouted command sounded as they stepped off the ramp, followed by the whistling tones of a wind instrument. At Wulfe¡¯s direction they walked until a plain white line on the floor, then turned to face the side party awaiting them.


    An honor guard of marines, their dark blue uniforms visibly decorated with ranging amounts of accolades and even medals, stood at attention along the bay¡¯s transverse bulkheads. Katrina hardly knew how many such a warship carried by design or doctrine, but there looked to be dozens, maybe even a hundred, present.


    Another block of sailors stood by the longitudinal bulkhead, while another, smaller block of senior officers waited just beyond the side party headed by two young men. The one to the left she didn¡¯t know, but the right one she instantly recognized as the Duke himself.


    ¡°Permission to come aboard, sir?¡± Her mouth moved on instinct, moved by the familiar situation.


    ¡°Permission granted, madam.¡± The unknown man, who she now knew was the warship¡¯s captain, replied as the instrument¡¯s whistling tone died down. His accent, like the Duke¡¯s, was soft yet clear, carrying just a tinge of his surprise.


    ¡°T-Thank you.¡± Katrina stepped across the line on the deck, formally boarding the ship. Sergeant Wulfe followed at her left shoulder, her two compatriots coming up to her right.


    ¡°Captain Jenkins, madam.¡± The captain shook her hand with a curious smile. ¡°Welcome aboard the Vanguard¡¯s Hymn. And may I formally introduce my liege, the Duke Akrites, first of his name.¡±


    The Duke looked a full two meters in real life, the smile on his clean-shaven face conveying a sense of calmness and stability. His shoulders were broad, fitting perfectly in his dark blue uniform.


    For a moment Katrina thought to bow, but then the duke extended his right hand, clad in a white glove. Firmly clasping it, she shook it with a light smile.


    ¡°It¡¯s good to finally meet you, my lord.¡± She said


    ¡°Likewise, Governor. I do hope my marines treated you well.¡± The young lord quipped, sounding rather¡­possessive of the soldiers.


    ¡°Yes, they were very¡­courteous.¡± Katrina struggled, trying to use rich vocabulary. Was that the proper way to talk to nobility?


    The Duke¡¯s eyes twinkled for a moment, but then he made a swift gesture with his other hand. Two officers stepped forward, looking slightly older than the lord.


    ¡°Commander Noriega, my chief of staff, and Lieutenant Commander Webb, my logistics officer. They will be joining us for dinner.¡± He explained, looking at Katrina¡¯s own entourage.


    Katrina gestured to the pair of true-blooded civilians by her side, who looked ever-so-slightly uncomfortable in this deeply military setting. ¡°Crane Bishop, my chief of mining operations, and Paula Styles, my deputy chief engineer. Unfortunately all other senior colonial personnel are¡­preoccupied.¡±


    ¡°Understandable.¡± The duke nodded, his expression apologetic. ¡°Hopefully we¡¯ll be able to remedy that soon enough, among other things.¡± He hinted, making another gesture, to Sergeant Wulfe.


    The marine nodded lightly. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please follow me to the Admiral¡¯s stateroom.¡±


    ¡ª


    As the six of them sat down in lush chairs inside the duke¡¯s receiving room, Katrina felt she had to speak. She was experienced enough in negotiations and politics ¡ªthe scars of her previous life¡ª to understand that the young noble was in a prime position to dictate terms. She wouldn''t ¡ªcouldn¡¯t¡ª refuse him, but by taking the lead she might be able to make his demands more reasonable. As a plus, she really was burning with curiosity.


    ¡°Would you be amenable to answering a question of mine, your lordship?¡±


    The duke nodded. ¡°Please, speak freely.¡±


    ¡°Where are you from?¡±


    The atmosphere in the room instantly shifted to a more serious tone. The duke¡¯s expression was thoughtful, gears turning in his head.


    ¡°I will tell you, though you may not believe me.¡± He chuckled, a rather bitter smile forming on his face.


    Katrina and her advisors unconsciously shifted forward, focused on his next words.


    ¡°Do you know of the Imperium of Nova Roma?¡±


    ¡°I¡­don¡¯t believe I do.¡± Katrina shook her head, turning to her advisors who simply shook their head. ¡°Enlighten us.¡±


    ¡°There isn¡¯t much to enlighten with. I could speak about six hundred years of politics and war, but there is little to be gained. But I should tell you that my dynasty had been a part of the Imperium ¡ªalbeit a small one¡ª for the past four centuries. That ended some¡­five or six standard days ago. We lost a¡­well, I suppose you could call it an internal conflict. In reality it was a war, however small by the standards of the Imperium.¡±


    Katrina racked her brain for any clues, but what she was hearing was truly foreign. If the duke and his fleet were a ¡®small¡¯ part of this polity, then the Imperium would have to be as a major player in the sector. Yet try as she did, she couldn¡¯t remember anything resembling an ¡®Imperium¡¯.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure that you¡¯re trying to remember if you¡¯ve heard about the Imperium, but I doubt you will. Maybe, maybe, you would find mentions in history books. For you, those events were over a millennium ago.¡± The duke confessed, his tone melancholic.


    ¡°I¡­what?¡± Katrina sputtered, her mind short-circuiting. ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°In the Imperium, it is ¡ªor was¡ª tradition for defeated nobles and their loyalists to be exiled into the void. A sub-light journey in stasis, to some far away colonizable system. That way both parties ¡®win¡¯.¡± The duke air-quoted. ¡°The victor gets rid of possible rebels and dissidents, and the loser is allowed to start anew instead of facing a firing squad.¡±


    Katrina slowly understood his explanation, shocking as it may be. However, there was still one small detail missing¡­


    ¡°And the jump? If you were moving at sub-light speeds, how did you appear in orbit out of the void. Only a hyperspace accident could cause such a¡­displacement.¡±


    ¡°Ah, that¡¯s where it gets interesting.¡± The duke chuckled. ¡°I still have a hard time believing it myself, but I trust my experts.¡±


    ¡°We were¡­a bit too trusting in the law.¡± He frowned. ¡°Exile dictates that one must first perform a hyperspace jump into the void between stars, from where as you know a hyperdrive can¡¯t take you back home, so that there is no going back. As we were about to do just that, our enemies attempted to ambush us. In our attempt to escape, we jumped prematurely. The matter-antimatter reaction hadn¡¯t calmed down, and the power surge caused a momentary crash in the drive computers. I hope you understand how dangerous such an act is.¡±


    Katrina nodded, grimacing. Hyperdrives were not only capable of opening a rift into hyperspace, but using specialized computation systems could do so accurately. Should said systems crash or be bypassed, ninety-nine times out of a hundred the ship never returned into realspace.


    ¡°We should have died there and then, but we didn¡¯t. Instead, my astrogator believes the hyperdrive took the entire fleet within a hair¡¯s breadth of a black hole¡¯s event horizon. I daresay that was the most powerful slingshot maneuver ever performed. After all, the Imperium is inside the Cygnus-Orion Arm of the galaxy, not the Perseus Arm.¡±


    Katrina felt her tongue grow cold as air flowed in through her gaping mouth.

 Chapter 4 - Not a drop of blood

    Before becoming a colonial governor, Katrina Polk had been an entrepreneur. A dime a dozen in the Republic, though unlike the many small business owners and self-employed that tried to make a living in the core worlds, her refining company had done well enough to enter the New Iridia Stock Exchange. And she accomplished that with just a handful of negotiations and a million-credit-loan.


    Now, sitting at the dinner table with one of the most powerful men she¡¯d ever met, she knew the upcoming negotiations could make or break her underdeveloped colony.


    ¡°Are you finished with your plate, madam Governor?¡±


    The young female voice brought her back to the present. Looking up, she saw the steward standing next to her seat. Looking back down at her plate, which only held scraps of what had been the finest beef steak she¡¯d ever eaten.


    Looking to her two advisors left and right, she noted -with some amusement- that the hardy mining chief and bookish deputy chief engineer both looked more than ready to have second or third portions.


    ¡°I am.¡± She said, looking back at the steward and nodding in satisfaction. ¡°That steak was excellent.¡±


    ¡°You are most welcome, madam.¡± The steward bowed lightly with a genuine smile.


    The raven-haired woman quickly cleaned up the table, before serving them an emerald-colored brew in fine crystal glasses. It was warm, and aromatic. Smelled like mint yet¡­entirely different. Fascinating. Katrina stared at her glass apprehensively, wondering just what they¡¯d been served.


    The duke noticed their hesitation, and realization dawned on his face. ¡°I suppose we¡¯ve discovered another casualty of time. This is matcha tea. Tea is a beverage made by boiling the leaves of the tea plant in water. Matcha tea is made using powdered green tea leaves. The concoction is quite refreshing, and I can vouch for its energizing qualities.¡±


    Katrina looked to her right at Paula Styles, her deputy chief engineer. The woman had already grasped her glass, looking mesmerized.


    ¡°This seems quite similar to chai, right Ms. Styles?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± The engineer asked, staring up in confusion. ¡°Oh, y-yes ma¡¯am. I¡¯d wager its the same thing. Maybe the linguistics got mixed up along the way, but this sounds exactly like the recipe for chai.¡±


    The duke nodded. ¡°Quite. Chai and tea are ¡ªor were¡ª two interchangeable words. It seems that somewhere along the past millennium the word ¡®tea¡¯ was lost.¡±


    ¡°Well then, your lordship, on behalf of modern humanity I thank you for bringing it back.¡± Katrina smiled. ¡°Cheers.¡±


    Despite their differences, the six of them drank their tea merrily. Katrina hadn¡¯t come across chai many times in her life, instead preferring coffee, but this ¡®matcha¡¯ chai was truly refreshing.


    ¡°Say, your lordship, you wouldn¡¯t happen to have some extra matcha tea to trade?¡±


    The duke smiled at her question, and shook his head. ¡°We barely have enough for eighty standard t-days. But, of course, we could always grow some more, among several other things. We just need a planet to farm.¡±


    ¡°I¡­uhm.¡± Katrina stammered. ¡°I believe we could lease you some territory on Polaris, in return for a percentage of your crop.¡±


    ¡°I was thinking bigger.¡± The duke said, and for a moment Katrina thought her colony was about to be annexed. Then a hologram appeared over the table without warning, forming into Polaris¡¯s star system, Pollux.


    Unlike most systems, Pollux was rather old. Pollux I was a G-type main sequence star on its last legs; it barely had dozen million years to go before its hydrogen core was exhausted and it collapsed, turning the star into a red giant. Aside from the yellow dwarf, the system had several other planetary bodies.


    The first two worlds were expectedly harsh, being so close to the star. Pollux II was a volcanic world, so hot that lava turned into gasses during the day. Pollux III was a tiny world barely worthy of the name planet that had a thick sulfuric atmosphere, rendering it useless for any purpose other than study.


    Pollux IV¡­was Polaris. A rather cold world inside the system¡¯s Goldilocks zone with a gravity of 9.87 meters per second squared, or about half a percentage above Ancient Terra¡¯s own gravitic field, though quite smaller and denser. Even from high orbit, the Akrites Fleet had already located several untapped mineral deposits, from iron and copper to uranium and titanium. The perfect mining world.


    The Duke¡¯s finger landed not on Polaris, but on the planet symmetrically opposite to it from the star¡¯s frame of reference. Pollux V shared some similarities with its orbital twin, though nobody could ever mix up the two. Polaris was cold, small, and resource rich, while Pollux V was temperate, large and devoid of obvious resource deposits.


    ¡°We¡¯d like to buy this planet off you, please.¡±


    +++


    Katrina had expected much of this ¡®dinner¡¯.


    Trade, for one. She had warehouses full of refined minerals, rare earths and even transuranics waiting for a merchant to trade for the goods and services that a colony thirsted for. Unfortunately, the latest bout of ¡®disagreements¡¯ between the major polities had left routes blocked or lacking in security. Maybe the duke had some of the items on the colony¡¯s ¡®shopping list¡¯ to trade for her refined minerals.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    And of course, there was security. Piracy had almost claimed her colony once, and the duke¡¯s fleet had proven to be an apt military unit. If the duke would accept some form of payment ¡ªshort of annexation or servitude¡ª she would accept. Maybe they coud even be charmed or bribed into leaving a few weapons or shield emitters to upgrade the station with.


    What she hadn¡¯t expected, however, was selling a piece of the star system.


    It wasn¡¯t that she couldn¡¯t, legally speaking. By all rights, the Colonial State of Polaris was the sole and complete owner of the Praxis system.


    ¡®But¡­why isn¡¯t he just taking it?¡¯ Katrina asked herself.


    There was nothing stopping the duke from parking his fleet above Praxis V and proclaiming his own colonial state. Polaris had a couple of transorbital shuttles that could maybe make it to the Kuiper belt in three or four weeks, but no actual ships. Compared to that ¡®fleet¡¯, the Akrites Fleet was a titan of war. Katrina had no doubt in her mind that if the Duke wanted to, he could annex Polaris under the threat of orbital bombardment and crown himself dictator without a drop of blood spilled.


    And yet here he was, in all his ducal grace, asking to purchase that dead, resourceless ball of dirt.


    ¡°Are you alright, Governor?¡± The duke¡¯s voice interrupted her train of thought. With an involuntary shake she focused back on his face, which had adopted a concerned expression. ¡°Would you like to rest?¡±


    ¡°N-No, your lordship, I¡¯m fine.¡± Katrina shook her head, sneaking glances at her two advisors. The pair was just as confused as she was. ¡°You said you wanted to¡­buy Praxis V?¡±


    ¡°Quite so. Is that a problem?¡± The young lord asked, sounding disappointed.


    ¡°No, no.¡± She refuted, blanching at his tone. ¡°I¡¯m just¡­surprised, that is all.¡±


    Gathering her thoughts, she berated herself. The luxurious dinner and welcoming conversation had lulled her into complacency, and she had almost forgotten that she was treading on thin ice. Negotiations could easily turn into orders in situations where the balance of power was so skewed, and she had a colony to take care of.


    ¡°I suppose that makes sense.¡± Duke Akrites chuckled. ¡°I doubt it¡¯s every day that you get such offers.¡±


    ¡°Correct, though that¡¯s not quite why I¡¯m surprised.¡± Katrina said. ¡°Frankly, I don¡¯t understand why you would want to buy the planet. The returns on mining would be abysmal, to say the least.¡±


    ¡°So what.¡± He shrugged, a gesture that felt most strange for a man in uniform. ¡°We only need enough to build housing and infrastructure. Everything else can be built in orbit, and I¡¯d much rather mine asteroids than ship materials up to orbit, even if the planet was made entirely of ore. The shuttle maintenance alone would bankrupt my fleet.¡±


    Katrina almost rebuked him. After all, space mining and orbital infrastructure are still far more expensive than their ground-side variants. People had to be paid more, maintenance cycles were shorter, machines were more expensive and the electricity bill was an order of magnitude fatter. The entire concept of a for-profit colony necessitated that exports brought in more than imports costed, and space mining¡¯s low margins only made sense with large scale operations backed by local industry.


    Thankfully, she stopped herself short of berating a man backed by a few hundred kilotons of warship. Not just because it would be unwise, but because his stance made sense, in a way. After all, he had a fleet.


    Not just warships, but civilian spacecraft. Passenger craft, freighters ¡ªsome enormous and others barely a few dozen meters long¡ª and an entire mobile fucking refinery to boot.


    He didn¡¯t care about profit margins, because he might just be able to jurry-rig an internal economy. Colonies usually depended on profits to secure industrial goods and defenses, but if he could deal with that then his imports would be nill.


    ¡°I¡­see.¡± Katrina nodded weakly, feeling almost dizzy after such a realization. ¡°Well then, may I and my advisors be allowed some time and privacy to confer? Say, ten or fifteen minutes?¡±


    The duke nodded, abruptly standing up. ¡°I and my staff will also confer, in the drawing room next door. You have this room all to yourselves; I assure you your privacy will not be breached. My steward will notify you when the time is up.¡±


    +++


    James sat at the table of his dining room, looking at the little green dot of a shuttle undocking from his flagship as projected from the table¡¯s holo. In front of him lay a couple pages of paper, signed by both him and Governor Polk. Her excellency held an identical copy of them in her briefcase as she made her way back to Polaris to discuss with the rest of the colonial council.


    ¡°How do you feel about this, ladies and gentlemen?¡± He asked the gathered officers of his staff.


    Outside of his quarters, these six officers all listened to his orders and stood by his decisions as if they were their own. James ran his fleet tight as a single ship, and there was no room for the poison of doubt. But inside here, inside the little box of utter privacy that were his personal quarters, these men and women would often be allowed to voice doubts, objections and even disagreements openly.


    Commander Michael Smith, his tactical officer, was the first to raise his hand. James nodded, allowing him to speak.


    ¡°I believe we were too lenient, sir.¡± Smith plainly stated, his face cold. ¡°We could have taken control of Polaris, bloodlessly so. The pirates defanged their orbital, and they¡¯ve no other defenses to speak of against our ships. With how concentrated the population is ¡ªthanks to the harsh climate¡ª merely raising a corps of collaborationists to enforce law and order would¡¯ve sufficed to keep the colony in check.¡±


    James shook his head. The commander was a savant in space combat, as many a victory had shown, but he was almost¡­clinical in the execution of his goals. Loyal to a fault, yes, but if let loose to conquer a fief for his lord he would paint the planets red.


    ¡°You fail to estimate the worth of loyalty, Michael. I completely agree that your proposed plan was actionable, and its short-term effects would bring us kilotons of raw materials with few costs. Yet long-term, pure use of force only breeds dissent.¡±


    The commander nodded in understanding, though James doubted he¡¯d turn the man into a humanitarian any time soon. Michael Smith was a fast learner, yes, but the way he thought was fundementally different to most people. Neurological profiles like his were common among the average civilian, but the circumstances of his orphaning, like many of those taken in by the Domus Pupilis, had irrevocably changed him.


    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Commander Noriega raise her hand.


    ¡°Still, sir, we could¡¯ve negotiated for a lower price tag. Industrial support was a given, antimatter fuel was acceptable¡­but warships?¡±


    James shook his head. ¡°You and I both know those aren¡¯t real warships, Harriet. I¡¯d rather give away a squadron of patrol boats than dedicate our escort ships to anti-piracy operations. Plus, you can¡¯t use the ships as-is.¡±


    His chief of staff raised one eyebrow in confusion, only for her face to come alive with realization. ¡°They¡¯ll need us to keep them running.¡±


    ¡°Precisely.¡± He nodded with some satisfaction. ¡°They¡¯ll need somebody to train the crews, technicians, officers¡­everybody. If they want to repair or upgrade their ships, they¡¯ll come to us first. Their spacers will be partial to the dynasty, and their military industry will be geared to support Akrites-designed technology. Add in the industrial and energy agreement, and their economy will also be dependent on us. We will have control of them, without as much as a single threat.¡±

 Chapter 5 - Changed Fortunes

    Five men and women dressed in lab coats sat in the conference room, inspecting the hologram of Pollux V. Their forms flickered and wavered lightly, their ship¡¯s civilian laser communications gear compensating for the fleet¡¯s high-g maneuvers.


    James sipped at his matcha tea, giving them as much time as they wanted to read up on the planet¡¯s characteristics. What was a few minutes, when a botched terraforming could set them back entire years?


    ¡°It is possible.¡± The bald man at the center of the group said after some time, nodding sagely at the planet¡¯s hologram.


    ¡°More than possible, I say.¡± His deputy said, the albino rubbing his bone-white chin. ¡°Ten years?¡±


    ¡°Less.¡± A third scientist, this time a woman, corrected him. ¡°The tectonics are good, the atmosphere can be modified, and the water¡¯s just trapped because of low temperatures. A textbook case of Tarsis Bombardment.¡±


    ¡°Modified Tarsis.¡± The deputy countered. ¡°We¡¯d need to enhance the cloud seeding by at least-¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s not bore the duke with numbers.¡± The bald man interrupted the pair with a slightly louder voice. Turning to James, he bowed lightly. ¡°Apologies, my lord.¡±


    ¡°Please, Chief Grey, there¡¯s not need for apologies. Do you need more time?¡±


    The veteran terraformist shook his head. ¡°No. It is our professional opinion that Pollux V is a good candidate for terraforming. I estimate¡­two years until a colony can be established. Three, accounting for any complications or interruptions.¡±


    James¡¯ eyes widened at the scientist¡¯s words. ¡°How is that even possible, doctor?¡±


    ¡°I said habitable, milord, not livable.¡± Chief Grey shrugged. ¡°We can free water from the ample ice, giving us the raw materials for electrolysis while at the same time lowering the planet¡¯s albedo ¡ªhow much sunlight is reflected¡ª and kicking the average temperature up a few degrees C. With virtually free energy, industrial support and little worry of overheating the planet, that much is expectable.¡±


    His hands moved to the hologram, using special gloves to modify the ¡®planet¡¯ with a twist of his palm. The image focused on the center of Pollux V¡¯s north-most continent, inside a valley almost four hundred meters below sea level.


    ¡°This valley is an ideal candidate. It is approximately five hundred square kilometers, enough for several hundred thousand citizens as well as all the necessary infrastructure of a self-sufficient settlement. Thanks to its unique geography, inside a basin between several hills and mountains, we could concentrate our efforts on the area and create an environment capable of sustaining human life within a few short years.¡±


    A chuckle escaped James¡¯ lips. ¡°That is excellent news. Please, tell me what you need to do.¡±


    The chief blinked.


    ¡°Well¡­first we would need to set up a hydrolysis plant. Ice and snow from the mountains would be shipped in, melted into water and then used to oxygenate the atmosphere and power our fusion reactors. Since an atmosphere already exists, there¡¯s hardly anything else we need to do to make the area breathable.¡±


    ¡°And that would take?¡± James asked, wincing at the scientist¡¯s expression.


    ¡°I should preface this by saying we can¡¯t be certain, yet. We need to examine the planet closely to answer such questions. But, from what we already know¡­six months. Six months to make the atmosphere inside the valley breathable. Of course, that¡¯s just one part of the terraforming process.¡±


    ¡°Atmospheric engineering was mastered before the invention of the hyperdrive, as humanity fixed the ruined environment of Ancient Terra after the War of Annihilation. Creating an entire biosphere from scratch is¡­significantly more difficult. Again, the valley settlement could be ¡®greened¡¯ within a year or two. But bringing life to an entire planet takes time. We can¡¯t just throw in a couple of artificially born animals and a coupe of tree saplings and call it a day.¡±


    ¡°One would assume so.¡± James smiled.


    ¡°Quite. Doctor Hegel, my deputy, is more suited to explaining the process.¡± The chief gestured to his albino junior, who visibly shrunk at the attention from his duke.


    ¡°M-Milord¡­you could compare the process to a line of dominoes.¡± The bone-white man said, taking a deep breath as he focused on his next words. ¡°First, w-we need to introduce microscopic life on both sea and land. This is often done by seeding rain ¡ªartificial or natural¡ª with billions of trillions of little eggs, that will then be spread evenly. We do this to create the medium for growing bigger organisms. On land, bacteria help create soil from dirt, clay and gravel, while at sea the microorganisms serve as food and regulate oxygen levels. With constant seeding and appropriate fertilizer ¡ªinorganic compounds found in asteroids by the kiloton¡ª they can grow within months.¡±


    As the man continued speaking, his rythm steadied into a confident pace.


    ¡°After that, we introduce bigger organisms. Rain seeding is once again the best option, used to drop the seeds of a hundred different types of grass and algae over the planet. Then our efforts are split, as land and sea operations become more specialized. In general, plants and animals are introduced in groups that are only reliant on each other as well as those introduced before them, recreating the food chain.¡±


    ¡°And how long until we have a mature biosphere?¡±


    Doctor Hegel shrugged. ¡°Inside the aforementioned settlement, in as little as two years. Concentrating our expertise on one area will speed up each stage substantially, and a lot can be done in parallel with the atmospheric engineering. But planet-wide, the process could take ten or twenty years. I can¡¯t say any more, because I simply don¡¯t know yet.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± James nodded in understanding. ¡°Very well, ladies and gentlemen. We all have busy schedules, so let¡¯s stop the meeting here. We will be entering Praxis V¡¯s orbit in eight hours. Doctor Grey, please contact my chief of staff when your observations are complete so you can give me a complete report and time-line.¡±


    ¡°Understood, milord.¡± Doctor Grey acknowledge, the entire team bowing as their holograms evaporated into nothing.


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    +++


    ¡°You gave him a planet?!¡± Mayor Himura Keiichi exclaimed, her mouth agape.


    ¡°Well¡­.sort of?¡± Katrina felt herself shrink at the woman¡¯s onslaught. Mayor Himura barely reached up to her chest, but she made up for her lack of height with a heart of fire and a voice louder than ambulance sirens.


    ¡°And what¡¯s that supposed to mean, ma¡¯am. Did you also give him half the system by any chance?¡±


    ¡°Again, sort of¡­¡± Katrina raised her hand to stop the mayor¡¯s verbal onslaught. ¡°But, and this is a big one, I didn¡¯t ¡®give him¡¯ anything. He paid for it, fair and square.¡±


    Sporting one hell of a frown, the mayor sat back down on her seat. ¡°Ugh¡­alright. Lay it on us.¡±


    Unlike the borderline-isolationist dwarf, the rest of her cabinet was at least somewhat partial to the deal she had made. Not that Katrina could reverse the decision now; the duke¡¯s fleet was already burning hard towards Praxis V, and the agreement had been signed, witnessed, recorded and transcribed for posterity.


    ¡°Don¡¯t look at me like that, Keiichi. Unlike the merchants and their mercenary rates, the duke has actually paid us well. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve all seen at least the basic outline of his fleet as observed by Polaris Station, but in the case you haven¡¯t let me just say two words. Mobile Refinery.¡±


    A couple of murmurs flew between mouths and ears, and Mayor Himura¡¯s eyes widened in realization.


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s right. The duke has agreed to provide us with antimatter fuel in bulk.¡±


    ¡°For how much?¡± Secretary Marcus Siegfried asked, uncharacteristically pale. Katrina barely held back a chuckle; the man was probably expecting some exorbitant price tag.


    ¡°Ninety percent.¡± She replied, earning more than a handful confused glances. But not from her secretary of finance; the man was a veteran of his trade ¡ªone who she¡¯d barely managed to poach for her venture¡ª. ¡°The duke will send a tanker every time somebody needs to refuel at Polaris Station, and collect ninety percent of whatever we charge.¡±


    ¡°Impossible.¡± Siegfried objected. ¡°The biggest and most efficient refineries in the sector cap their margins at ninety-five, and they only give out those kinds of deals to the biggest, fattest clients in the block, like entire fleets of fuel haulers or super-orbitals. If we tried to get a deal like that with the fuel merchants, they¡¯d set the margin to ninety-nine and ask for an exorbitant minimum. What the fuck is he getting out of this?¡±


    ¡°Beats me.¡± Katrina shrugged, and she was telling the truth. Running a refinery, and a mobile one at that, could not be cheap. ¡°Maybe he¡¯s counting on high traffic, maybe he doesn¡¯t know how to run a business. In any case, we make a profit by virtue of simply existing.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­that¡¯s decent money, but it doesn¡¯t quite reach the ¡®we sold a planet for this much¡¯ range.¡± Himura argued.


    ¡°You¡¯d be right, except that¡¯s hardly it. The duke¡¯s fleet has more than twenty ships, which include warships, passenger ships, freighters, fuel haulers and the aforementioned mobile refinery. And what does a large fleet need? Maintenance, and lots of it. Add in the fact it isn¡¯t just any flotilla, but a colony expedition, and that means you need at least one ship dedicated in its entirety to producing stuff, from nuts and bolts to batteries, sensors and who knows what else.¡±


    Looking down at the display in front of her seat, she shared some of Polaris Station¡¯s sensor data to the others¡¯ conference terminals. Seconds later, everybody was looking at the scans of a nine-hundred-meter-long armored freighter decorated with laser clusters and kinetic CIWS emplacements. The design screamed military, yet aside from its point defenses the ship had no weapons to speak of.


    ¡°This is their mobile factory. Or, at least, one of them. The ANS Blackmisth¡¯s Bane, named after an extinct profession where a man forged crude metal tools using hammers, anvils and physical strength. Duke Akrites assured me that it could service our need for manufactured goods, from industrial machinery to mining equipment and even household appliances.¡±


    ¡°And they¡¯ll¡­let us use it?¡± Chief Engineer Gerhard Masur asked, hungrily staring at his display while rubbing his white beard.


    ¡°Not quite. They are willing to provide us with industrial capacity, paid with raw materials. Essentially, we¡¯ll be paying with ore. The costs come out incredibly low.¡±


    ¡°And how do we know they can support our needs? What stops them from saying they ¡®miscalculated¡¯ or some other excuse?¡± Mayor Himura pointedly asked.


    Katrina smiled. ¡°Because of this.¡± She tapped her console.


    The bulky black form of the Blacksmith¡¯s Bane disappeared from everyone¡¯s screens, replaced by a sleek gray warship.


    ¡°This, ladies and gentlemen, is the Reliance-class system patrol boat. It¡¯s a hundred-meter-long, twenty-five kiloton warship built for anti-piracy operations. It has point defenses, kinetic weapons and missile launchers, military-grade shields and boarding craft.¡±


    ¡°A nice ship, perfect for our needs.¡± Himura nodded, though the frown hadn¡¯t left her face. ¡°How much did you spend on this?¡±


    Ships were expensive. A transorbital shuttle cost upwards of five million aurums, and that didn¡¯t include the exorbitant costs of shipping it out to the frontier. An actual warship, armed and armored for a proper fight, ought to have cost the colony its gross domestic product for the year.


    ¡°Forty kilotons of steel, or an equivalent quantity of any other metal in terms of rarity.¡±


    ¡°Hu?¡± The mayor let out a confused sound.


    ¡°Exactly my response.¡± Katrina chuckled. ¡°The duke has offered to built up to four Reliance-class boats, each of which requires about two dozen kilotons of metal. Since our main export is refined minerals, he¡¯s offered to accept them as payment. Half as a down-payment, and half upon delivery of the vessel. And he¡¯s offered exchange rates for most other metals, which I¡¯d say are pretty good.¡±


    It was actually more than ¡®pretty good¡¯. It was phenomenal, and even the stubborn mayor knew it. For the price of five transorbital shuttles they¡¯d buy a bona-fide warship.


    +++


    It took some more arguing but ultimately the meeting¡¯s participants left, satisfied after thoroughly grilling their leader.


    ¡®I wonder if the duke has to deal with the same spiel¡­¡¯ Katrina thought as she walked outside colonial headquarters building and into the cool polarisian air. Her own home was close enough that she didn¡¯t need to walk, and the colony was small enough that there wasn¡¯t any serious threat to her person in public.


    All she wanted to do was lie down in her chair in front of the fireplace, have a drink and fall asleep. She hadn¡¯t slept for twenty hours, and considering a day in Polaris was twenty-two standard hours that really was pushing it.


    ¡°Aurum for your thoughts, ma¡¯am?¡± A gruff voice called out from behind her.


    Turning around, she saw Crane Bishop in his signature fur coat approaching her with a smile.


    ¡°Oh, cut the ma¡¯am shit out, Cray.¡±


    ¡°I dunno, you looked like a ma¡¯am-worthy person back during those negotiations.¡± The miner-turned-executive chuckled, matching his pace with hers.


    The two of them walked in silence for several minutes, surveying the calm streets of southern Goldspeak. While the northern portions of the colonial capital were always busy, the southern suburbs had a village-like quality to them that Katrina hadn¡¯t known she needed.


    ¡°We almost lost this today.¡± He muttered.


    ¡°And yet we¡¯re still standing. I hear they¡¯re toasting to the Duke¡¯s name once every half-hour in the pubs, and there wasn¡¯t any significant damage on the ground.¡± She replied.


    ¡°All thanks to our mysterious benefactors, banishing the pirates like fairytale heroes.¡±


    Katrina turned to look at her long-time friend and partner, frowning. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me Keiichi got you into her isolationist band-wagon.¡±


    ¡°Pfft, please. The woman is insufferable. No, I don¡¯t think we should hide under our shells and keep on living as if pirates weren¡¯t this close to putting a collar around our necks a day ago. But¡­do you think we can trust him?¡±


    ¡°The duke?¡± She asked, sighing. ¡°You mean the guy in command of a warfleet meaner than a Hegemony battlegroup? We¡¯ve got a wrecked orbital, three hundred policemen armed with shock batons and a few dozen security folk with flechette guns. Honestly, Cray, do you think we have a choice?¡±


    ¡°No¡­and I don¡¯t like that.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t like that either, but at least there¡¯s a chance we can win big. Heck, I would¡¯ve given him the planet if he¡¯d just asked nicely. The fact that we got a king¡¯s ransom for it makes up for the lack of choice and then some. This isn¡¯t what we planned for, but it sure is better than praying the next ship that makes orbit doesn¡¯t try to rob us for all we¡¯re worth.¡±


    ¡°Now¡­¡± She paused as they arrived in front of her residence. ¡°Are you going to come in for a bottle of alkbrew, or do I need to break out the good stuff?¡±

 Chapter 6 - To new beginnings

    Sukachyov Valeriy Mikhailovich had lived through much change in his life.


    He¡¯d suffered poverty at the hands of useless nobles, seen his birthworld reduced to ruin and been chased out of his home twice now.


    But Valeriy was also a simple man, an adaptable man.


    He had food in his stomach, fresh oxygen in his lungs and a roof over his head. Romance had failed him many times, but familial love made up for all that. And for all the friends he¡¯d lost along the way, by disagreement or misfortune, he¡¯d gained many more.


    ¡°Valeriy, my man!¡± Liam McAvoy greeted him with an earnest smile, dressed in a sharp black suit. ¡°How¡¯d you sleep?¡±


    ¡°Weird. Woke up dizzy, and I¡¯m still cold.¡± Valeriy rubbed at his forearms.


    ¡°Mhm, cryo is weird like that.¡± Liam nodded in agreement, shivering lightly.


    The two walked towards the exit of the busy hangar bay, their assistants trailing behind them. All four of them looked like foreigners onboard the warship, dressed in civilian clothes and having served not a day in the military. Thankfully, it wasn¡¯t their first time on a naval ship. It wasn¡¯t even their first time in this specific warship.


    A red-haired lieutenant approached them, stopping a few paces away.


    ¡°Mr. Sukachyov, Mr. McAvoy, welcome aboard the Vanguard¡¯s Hymn. I hope the shuttle ride wasn¡¯t too rough?¡±


    ¡°Not in the slightest.¡± Liam shook his head.


    ¡°A bit chilly though.¡± Valeriy added.


    Lieutenant Cory Gaines nodded in sympathy. ¡°An unfortunate side-effect of the cryogenic stasis process, and one that humanity has been trying to crack since we could count the number of inhabited worlds on one hand. Now, please follow me; his Grace is waiting for you in his quarters.¡±


    +++


    ¡°It is good to see you, Your Grace.¡± The two businessmen bowed deeply as they entered the dining room.


    ¡°Valeriy, Liam, it is good to see you too.¡± James smiled, gesturing for the two to take the last remaining seats along the dining table where, just yesterday, he¡¯d negotiated the purchase of Pollux V. ¡°Please, take a seat so that we may begin.¡±


    As the pair got situated, James looked around the table, where he¡¯d gathered the so-called ¡®colonization committee. From top navy officers and the chief engineers of his fleet logistics ships to top industrialists and scientists.


    The men and women gathered here would be the heads of industry, economy and defense in the dynasty¡¯s nascent steps in this new world they¡¯d found themselves in.


    ¡°Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I¡¯m sure you¡¯re all feeling rather cold after waking up this morning, so I¡¯ve gone ahead and asked the galley to prepare a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, hash browns and spiced direboar sausages.¡±


    Satisfied nods and smirks erupted around the table. James smiled; no matter the situation, food always brought people together, and it made them far more agreeable to unsavory plans.


    No more than a minute later, galley staff brought in platters, dishes, cutlery and coffee pots. The food was hardly ¡®exotic¡¯ or ¡®expensive¡¯ by the standards of the Imperium, but akritan culture never managed to mesh with the peaceful imperial core¡¯s over-the-top luxurious trends.


    His closest allies ate to their hearts¡¯ content, and they all made sure to compliment the chef. His steward, Francine Schmidt-Akrites ¡ªhis aunt twice removed¡ª, was a sweet woman to all, except those that badmouthed her food. James still had fond memories of the Imperial envoy who¡¯d complained about the ¡®cheap¡¯ steak and ended up shitting himself during a meeting with his father.


    ¡®I wonder what concessions he gave for ruining the carpet¡­those laxatives must¡¯ve been fit for a cow.¡¯


    Within twenty minutes, the platters of food had been virtually licked clean, and by the half-hour mark everybody was primed, ready and sipping on some delicious matcha tea. The drink had been a staple of Akritan cuisine for nearly three centuries, one of the few Imperial trends that had not only managed to catch on to the dynasty¡¯s culture but embed itself in it permanently.


    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen.¡± James called for their attention. ¡°Now that we¡¯re done with our meal, I would like to answer a question I¡¯m sure you¡¯re all thinking. ¡®Where are we?¡¯. Commander Noriega will give you all a short explanation. Commander?¡±


    ¡°Certainly, Your Grace. As you all know¡­¡±


    ¡­


    The news had been received¡­well. Surprisingly well, considering these individuals weren¡¯t soldiers but civilians at the end of the day. There was no denial, no violence or madness ¡ªnot that James had expected any of them¡ª but the atmosphere hadn¡¯t turned sombre either. More than anything, the men and women of his ¡®inner circle¡¯ looked intrigued.


    ¡°So¡­there are other humans?¡± Sukachyov Valeriy¡¯s asked, leaning into the table.


    ¡°Quite.¡± James nodded. ¡°There¡¯s nothing ¡®off¡¯ with them that I¡¯ve noticed; they seemed perfectly agreeable, and our discreet tests of their blood, sweat and saliva showed no diseases or maladies that might prove harmful.¡±


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    ¡°That is good, no?¡± Valeriy asked, receiving a number of hesitant nods from around the table. ¡°There is opportunity for trade, and therefore there is opportunity for advancement. Away from the Vogdi blockades and the stagnancy of the Imperium.¡±


    ¡°It is good. Very good, I daresay.¡± Carl Schreiber agreed, his ever-conservative demeanor brightening. The manufacturing magnate and trained engineer was as cold as the void; to see him smile ever-so-slightly was a sign of pure happiness.


    Everybody joined in agreement, smiling and even cheering. Their reaction was wholly opposite to the panicked confusion James had expected, but he wasn¡¯t one to waste a chance to boost morale ¡ªand drink some more matcha tea to boot¡ª. Of course, he wasn¡¯t about to serve the others tea; half of them would toss him out of the nearest airlock while the others emptied his dusted liquor cabinet of every drop.


    ¡°A toast, then.¡± He proposed, turning to his flag lieutenant. ¡°Lieutenant Gaines, would you please bring us that bottle of scotch inside the cabinet hanging off the wall, along with a dozen of those glasses? Yes, that one, thank you.¡±


    The men and women passed around the stack of crystal glasses and each poured themselves a finger of the caramel-gold liquor inside the aged bottle. Of course, James refused.


    Officially, he wouldn¡¯t drink a drop because he was in uniform onboard a ship, and if he drank while forbidding it of every other sailor they would rebel on the spot, fervent battle-forged loyalty be damned. Unofficially, he couldn¡¯t stand drinking alchohol. The last time he¡¯d drank any was during his eighteenth birthday¡¯s celebrations, and he¡¯d been puking into a toilet an hour later while his bodyguards ran toxicity tests on anything he as much as looked at throughout the night.


    ¡°To new beginnings!¡± All of them toasts, emptying their glasses while James enjoyed his delightful tea.


    ¡­


    As the short celebrations came to a close, the main part of the meeting began. Surprise or no surprise, the people gathered here knew what they were going to be doing; planning the development of the dynasty¡¯s new crownworld for the next half decade. Initial drafts had been proposed and discussed even before the exodus, but they had been only vague outlines. Now that they knew what they were getting themselves into, it was time to get into the details.


    ¡°First and foremost, our target.¡± James said. ¡°Within the next four years, we need a home for our people. Housing, infrastructure, food and industry to support two hundred thousand civilians. I expect that we will be decanting more and more people every week until then, with the most critical personnel being decanted first.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Sukachyov, I want your ship and crew to begin mining critical minerals within the week. Is that feasible?¡±


    ¡°Probably, but I cannot guarantee it, Your Grace.¡± Valeriy bowed lightly, his expression thoughtful. ¡°My crew¡¯s families are safe on-board other passenger ships, leaving only my trained crew on the ship. I can have them decanted and working within the day, and my ship can begin its burn even sooner, but I haven¡¯t much information on the astrographic charts so I couldn¡¯t tell you where to even begin.¡±


    James nodded in understanding, tapping at the tablet next to him on the table. ¡°How about now?¡±


    A three-dimensional map of the system came to life at the center of the table, before focusing into the area around Pollux V. The planet was surrounded by two small moons, though no asteroid ring for easy mining.


    ¡°Ah, that makes it easy. Very easy, indeed.¡± Valeriy pointed at the elliptical band between Pollux V and Pollux VI. ¡°What is the distance to this asteroid belt?¡±


    ¡°Closest point, point-nine AU. Farthest point, two-point-one. That gives you an average of one-point five AU, or ten hours on a freighter from orbit.¡±


    ¡°Twelve, maybe thirteen, for the Robotnik. Count Komanov preferred to built cheap ships and buy expensive roman wine; one of the many reasons the Vogdi prince was sitting on his throne just two months after declaring war.¡± Valeriy corrected, chuckling at his former lord¡¯s idiocy. ¡°But¡­this is good, Your Grace. Very good; I can have the first batch of refined ores in Pollux V orbit by the end of the week.¡±


    James nodded, satisfied at his promise, and moved on to the next piece of the puzzle.


    Kim Sun-hee was a woman of average height and exceptional intelligence, much like every other member of the Kim family and its branches. As family matriarch, and the CEO of Kim Industries, she¡¯d made an already trusted company into the dynasty¡¯s biggest producer of defense equipment. She was also a good friend, sharing much of his passion for tea.


    ¡°Ms. Kim, I believe my flag lieutenant has already informed you of our first export orders.¡±


    Sun-hee bowed lightly. ¡°He has, Your Grace.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. I want your mobile shipyard to set up its operations in geosynchronous orbit above Pollux V; the navigational data will be delivered later. The Hephaestus will set up shop in the local area so that we can start maintaining the warships as soon as possible, while you set up for shipbuilding operations. How quickly can that be achieved?¡±


    The veteran engineer hummed lightly for a few moments. ¡°Two weeks, if the unpacking goes smoothly. I¡¯d say three weeks to a month, because it never does.¡± She smiled apologetically.


    ¡°Reality rarely conforms to our wishes.¡± James nodded in agreement. ¡°But we¡¯ll make do with what we have, and that is plenty enough. Case in point, our new home.¡± He focused the hologram on Pollux V.


    ¡°Pollux V is hardly a paradise world, but we can make it one with what we have. One of the most important metrics is the percentage of oxygen in the atmosphere, which currently sits at around six or seven percent. That needs to go up to twenty-one percent, though the geography of our first settlement allows us to make the local air breathable in separate to the rest of the planet. In any case, we¡¯ll need electrolysis facilities to break up water and release oxygen. The engineering was perfected centuries ago, but we still need energy. Lots of energy, which is where you, Mr. Moreau.¡±


    ¡°The Apogee Corporation would be glad to begin production, Your Grace.¡± Jean-Louis Moreau smiled, though his expression was cloudy. ¡°I confess, however, that our production lines and logistics will take more time to set up.¡±


    ¡°Give me a timeline.¡± James asked.


    ¡°A month, at least, to set up the production line.¡± Jean-Louis explained, grimacing. ¡°If the logistics are set up, and thats a big if, we could have reactors for all four of those patrol boats in three months. As for the ground-side reactors¡­four months, maybe six. Not only are they bigger, but we¡¯d have to ship them piecemeal from orbit and assemble them on-site.¡±


    ¡°I understand. For now, set up your operations in geosynchronous orbit and write up a timetable and your logistical requirements.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Your Grace.¡±


    ¡°Now, as to the¡­¡±


    The meeting would go on for quite some time, as James addressed the role of each and every organization present in the coming weeks, months and years. Few expected reality to line up with their plans, and so concrete decisions remained limited to the next few months. Life would be slow for the first weeks and months, as industrial machinery hastily packed into freighters and skilled workers thrown into cryosleep were sent back into service.


    Nonetheless, sentiments were high. The war was over, and the universe had given the Akritan Dynasty a second chance at life. Few people would¡¯ve been more eager to make use of it than the ambitious James and his loyalists.

 Chapter 7 - Patrol

    Almost a week had passed since the fleet had entered Pollux V¡¯s orbit. The once-frantic schedule was mellowing out into an efficient tempo, shift lengths halving and morale rising.


    The mobile ore refining ship Robotnik had entered the inner asteroid belt, releasing hundreds of miners aboard specialized shuttlecraft to bring in asteroids rich in metals. The process was straightforward but arduous, requiring experienced crews, good equipment and above all else time. In the last five standard days, Valeriy Sukachyov¡¯s Valeria Mining Corporation had processed nearly two thousand tonnes of asteroid, with the processing rate increasing as the asteroid-to-ingot process was adapted to local conditions.


    Meanwhile, the Lagrange point between Pollux V and the bigger of its two moons, Alpha, had become the place to be for all sorts of industry. Kim Industries, Apogee Corporation and several other companies had set up shop alongside the two hulking figures of the navy¡¯s Fast Fleet Auxiliaries. While the civilian ships and mobile factories were still having issues starting production, the Hephaestus and the Blacksmith¡¯s Bane had begun operations since day one.


    The former was in the process of repairing the damage incurred during the surprise exchange with the pirates, which compared to ¡®proper¡¯ wartime battle damage looked like little more than a scratch. It was only due to the fact they¡¯d just left hyperspace that the fleet had incurred any damage at all; shields automatically shut down during FTL travel, and took time to redeploy.


    As for the latter, the Blacksmith¡¯s Bane and her forges had a fabrication que light-years long. Everything from spare parts for routine maintenance to construction material that would be used in the planned orbital.


    Yet the Pollux industrial zone was not only limited to internal production. Polaris had already sent a detailed production order, to be processed precisely one standard month after the signing of the trade agreement. Ten kilograms of nearly-pure rhodium had been set aside for the transaction, with every industrial player hungering after the invaluable good that allowed fusion reactors and hyperdrives to function.


    With growing resource extraction efforts and a stream of lucrative orders propelling it, akritan industry was working as fast as it could.


    +++


    Commodore Albin Houben had been called many things in life. Smart, by his adopted mother and teachers during his years in the Domus Pupili. Ambitious, by his instructors and comrades in the Naval War College. Sexy or mysterious, by the shore leave flings he¡¯d bedded since earning his commission. Lecherous, by the staff working the bars he ¡®hunted¡¯ in for said flings.


    All that, of course, was secondary. Like most other pupili that entered the College and earned their commission, Albin¡¯s family was the navy itself. Unlike most other pupili, however, he was driven by just duty and loyalty to the duchy, or the comrades with which he sailed side-by-side. No, Albin was driven by the ultimate high; combat. From the endless pummeling of long-range missile fire to the breakneck maneuvers and the close-range knife fights that left crews decimated and ships turned to dust, he lived for war.


    Which is why he was feeling so damn bored right now. Eying the empty coffee mugs lying around the bridge, he stirred from the command seat.


    ¡°Galley, this is bridge.¡± He thumbed the intercom button.


    ¡°Bridge, galley. Go ahead.¡±


    ¡°We need three pots of straight black coffee, a pitcher of milk, a bowl of sugars and two dozen of whatever bite-sized snack is available.¡±


    ¡°Coffee, milk, sugar and snacks. Copy that, bridge; they¡¯ll be there in, oh, ten minutes.¡±


    The intercom buzzed shut, and the recently-promoted commodore sat back down on his comfy seat.


    Eyes lazed about his displays, looking at the squadron¡¯s location, speed, heading and a dozen other metrics. Here were three ships and two thousand souls, bound to obey him upon the pain of death. The jump from ship to fleet command should¡¯ve given any prospective flag officer a raging boner, but Albin only felt a mild buzz at the thought.


    Patrol Squadron One was composed of his own Knight-class cruiser Whitefang and a pair of Aegis-class frigates, the Bastion and the Paladin. With both ship classes geared towards long-term independent duty, the squadron could continue on its mission for many months.


    ¡®Helluva route to send a cruiser on, but you use what you¡¯ve got.¡¯


    Had he been promoted to commodore during the height of the war, he would¡¯ve been ecstatic. But now the war was over, and conflict seemed far away.  His squadron was currently the only one likely to meet combat, patrolling the Polaris system¡¯s outskirts and jump points for pirates, raiders and other types of enterprising scum hoping to make a quick buck.


    Under normal circumstances, the best ships to send on such patrols were frigates, destroyers and specialized patrol boats. The Columbus system, the dynasty¡¯s capital, had been patrolled by a dozen anti-piracy boats. Such ships were cheap to build and often manned by green crews, but lacked the hyperdrive necessary to travel to another system independently.


    But now the dynasty had no such ships.


    To a layman, the solution was obvious: strip some of the Strike Group¡¯s escorts into an impromptu  squadron and send them off. That was the first of many stupid ideas the Academy instructors had purged his class of.


    The war¡¯s worst defeats ¡ªon both sides¡ª had occurred because capital ships had been caught without a sufficient number of escorts. Without its scouts, defenders and harassers, a battleship or battlecruiser was a very powerful but unwieldy sword that could be picked apart by a more nimble force of smaller ships.


    So instead, the admiral had picked the Whitefang and its escorts for the mission, keeping the Vanguard¡¯s Hymn, the Circe and the two fleet auxiliaries under the watch of the group¡¯s four other escorts.


    Was sending an up-gunned cruiser and two frigates armed to the teeth on a glorified border patrol a bit of an overkill? Yes. But it served its purpose, and kept the curious folks in Polaris aware of the dynasty¡¯s power.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡­


    ¡®So bored¡­¡¯


    ¡°Sir?¡± A voice called out. ¡°Commodore?¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± He turned around, seeing his former executive officer ¡ªtemporarily promoted to ship command¡ª holding a plastic plate full of pastries.


    ¡°Pastry, sir?¡± The man offered.


    Albin inspected the various pastries, seeing how the galley staff had worked their limited ingredients into imaginary shapes, from animals to mythical creatures and even ships. The use of food coloring ¡ªone of the few luxuries afforded to sub-capital ship¡¯s kitchens¡ª  spiced up the image with bright and unique palettes. The Whitefang¡¯s chefs could get very creative, which spelled wonders for crew morale on long stints away from home.


    ¡°I think I¡¯ll take the¡­¡±


    ¡°Status change!¡± The sensor officer announced, and as Albin turned towards him the chosen sweet fell and shattered on the floorplate.


    ¡°Report.¡± He ordered, sitting back down and tapping away at his display¡¯s controls.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got ship signatures on jump point Alpha. Gravidar and Lidar are lighting up; counting nine bogeys in formation. Designating ¡®Group Uniform¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Estimated size-mass profiles? What are we looking at?¡± Albin demanded.


    Within seconds the gravidar¡¯s returns answered his question. Five of the unknown ships were small, ranging from from forty to sixty kilotons in weight. They could¡¯ve been anything, from mining ships to fuelers, cargo haulers and armed escorts. The last four were significantly heavier, each massing nearly two hundred kilotons.


    The unknown fleet had entered the system at a moderate point-fifteen cee, or fifteen percent of the speed of light, and was accelerating at thirty standard gravities. Or, it had entered the system at that speed and acceleration; the squadron was an entire light-hour away from the system¡¯s sole jump point, so their sensor data was delayed by one hour.


    Albin thought of a response to the unknown intruders. Though the gravidar¡¯s readings put the fleet squarely in the box of a cruiser-destroyer task force ¡ªand a strong one at that¡ª their velocity and acceleration profiles were paltry in comparison to what a proper warship like the Whitefang was capable of. He doubted this fleet had anything violent in mind; nobody went to war crawling.


    ¡°Astrogation, plot an intercept course with Group Uniform. Communications, relay that course to all ships, and send the following message to the Admiral on a flash transmission.¡±


    Turning to his controls, he typed up a short report.


    [Detected nine unknown movers moving starwards from jump point. STOP. Speed 0.15 light. STOP. Acceleration 45 gravities. STOP. Proceeding to immediate intercept and awaiting further orders. OVER.]


    Sending his report to the communication officer¡¯s terminal, the commodore looked at the map on his display and grinned.


    ¡®Finally, we get to do something interesting.¡¯


    +++


    ¡°Sir, you need to see this.¡± The sensor officer called out to George from his seat.


    George Holloway, captain of the merchant ship Camilla Rayden, picked up his mug of tea from his chair¡¯s cup holder and walked over to the officer¡¯s console just a few meters away. The bridge, much like any other merchantman¡¯s, was a small and cozy affair. The small number of bridge crew reflected the ship¡¯s tiny complement, made up of barely a hundred sailors.


    ¡°What¡¯s up, Cramer?¡± He asked, looking at the young man¡¯s screens as he sipped on the delicious brew in his mug.


    One didn¡¯t serve for three decades in the merchant marine without learning to make a mean brew of coffee or chai; by now George was a bona-fide expert in fringe world chai varieties, an expensive habit made cheap by his job.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a ton of activity around this planet, sir.¡±


    George leaned in, taking a look at the sensor readings, and immediately frowned. ¡°Hot damn. There must be at least a megaton¡¯s worth of ships around Pollux V. What are they doing here? Sanders, come take a look at this.¡± He called out to his executive officer.


    The bald and oft-grumpy man walked in slow and steady, resting his spectacles on his forehead to let his ill-focused eyes read the sensors¡¯ output. George stifled a smirk at their sight; his XO¡¯s fear of laser surgery was infamous among the crew.


    ¡°Lotta fuckin¡¯ ships is what it is.¡± The veteran nodded in agreement. ¡°Maybe mining; I don¡¯t see what else they could be doing in this dump.¡±


    ¡°A colony expedition?¡± Lieutenant Cramer hazarded a guess.


    ¡°No. Well¡­maybe?¡± Commander Sanders stumbled over his words. ¡°It does look like it, kid, but I ain¡¯t heard of no expedition setting up shop on the bad side of Vicky¡¯s Ring. You¡¯d need a few hundred million aurums to get one assembled, and thats on a low-risk route while guarded by a state navy. To get one going out here in bum-fuck nowhere you would need equipment and manpower worth five or ten times that, and a few mercs like ours to scare off any void-cunts searching for easy prey.¡±


    Dumbfounded by the image on the ship¡¯s scopes, the command crew shrugged and passed it off to be assessed at the post-hyper status meeting with the rest of the convoy¡¯s ships. The strange ships in Pollux V orbit were fifty-five AUs away; even the courier ships ¡ªthose outfitted with pre-collapse tech worth its weight in rhodium¡ª would need a day and a half to cross the distance.


    ¡­


    ¡°So¡­a colony, or a mining expedition?¡± Kimon Rayden summed up, drumming his holographic fingers on the conference table. ¡°Strange indeed.¡±


    ¡°My sensor and intelligence staff are more partial to the former.¡± Commodore Jonas Glennon, the CEO and senior-most officer of One-oh-Four Security Services, added. His frigates might¡¯ve been stripped of the Republic¡¯s most classified systems, but their current gear was still better than what the merchies carried aboard. ¡°We¡¯re seeing lots of big ships in orbit of the planet known as Pollux V, kilometer-long ones.¡±


    Rayden¡¯s eyebrows nearly jumped at the mercenary¡¯s last sentence. ¡°Such an expedition should¡¯ve raised a lot of eyebrows, everywhere. Only a few state-sponsored shipyards make kilometer-sized vessels, and those that are traded on the second hand market are closely watched.


    ¡°In either case, even better.¡± He concluded. ¡°If it¡¯s a mining fleet, we¡¯ll do our best to get their ore at favorable rates. If it¡¯s a colony expedition, I think we can manage to sell them some supplies and such. We will continue on our course around Pollux VII and its asteroid belt, and proceed to Polaris; the miners are so desperate for manufactured goods that they¡¯d be happy to hand out their sensor data for a ton of spare electronics. We will continue with our transponders offline; who knows what scum might be lurking around.¡±


    ¡­


    ¡°Sir, this doesn¡¯t look right.¡± Lieutenant Cramer said from his console.


    ¡°What is it now, kiddo?¡± Commander Sanders asked, letting out a tired sigh. In just half an hour his shift would be over and he could go relax in his quarters with a bottle of alk and a bowl of extra-spicy fritos; he had a crate of the stuff stored for the journey.


    Getting up from the captain¡¯s chair, the old XO walked over to the sensor console to take a look at whatever had caught the lieutenant¡¯s fancy. The convoy had been traveling for nearly eight hours now, its course taking it around the ice giant Pollux VII and its dense asteroid ring..


    ¡°Inside the ring, sir.¡± Cramer pointed at one specific screen, which showed the output of the ship¡¯s infrared sensors. ¡°I¡¯ve got three blips; pretty small and low-profile but they are getting bigger every second. I think they are ships, coming towards us.¡±


    It took only a cursory glance at the sensor readings for Sanders¡¯ eyes to open wide. ¡°Son¡­I think you¡¯re right. Stars, they are coming right at us! We need to call the¡ª¡±


    ¡°Commander!¡± The communications officer shouted, a look of utter confusion on her face. ¡°We¡¯re being hailed! All frequencies, radio and laser. It¡¯s coming from the asteroid ring.¡±


    ¡°Send it to my terminal.¡± Sanders sat back down on his seat, his legs suddenly feeling like they were made of jelly.


    His terminal¡¯s main screen lit up, showing a man in a military uniform with a curiously neutral expression. The background was stark gray, and his uniform was laconic in decorations. Three ribbons were stitched above his heart, alongside a name patch.


    COMMO A. Houben


    ¡°Unknown flotilla, this is Commodore Albin Houben of the Akritan Dynasty Navy. By the authority granted to me by all polities in this system, I hereby order you to turn on your transponder and any other means of identification immediately, as well as your flight plan. Failure to do so will result in you being flagged as a trespasser. This message will be repeated several times and delivered by all accessible means for your convenience.¡±

 Chapter 8 - Newfound Confidence

    Several hours had passed since the so-called Commodore and his squadron of ships had announced their presence. Kimon Rayden was loathe to admit that, upon hearing of a stars-damned cruiser appearing out of the void on a least-time burn, he¡¯d damn near shit himself.


    His second course of action, after slamming down a shot of finely aged barley visk, had been to get ahold of Commodore Glennon to see just what they were up against. While he knew that cruisers were meaner than frigates in general, the sheer number of types, sizes, variations and such made it easy to grab a five-hundred-meter freighter, slap on a railgun and call it a ¡®heavy assault cruiser¡¯ or whatever else you wanted.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what that is.¡± The mercenary replied to his inquiry, obviously struggling to make himself look calm. ¡°It¡¯s eight times heavier than one of my frigates, and longer than the meanest heavy cruisers to come out of a Hegemony shipyard.¡±


    ¡°I¡­I hope our contract is¡­¡± Kimon had mumbled, knowing deep in his heart that the mercenary would immediately turn around and flee ¡ªleaving his merchant ships as bait¡ª if the odds looked bad enough. That¡¯s what mercenaries did¡­and considering this was the Commodore¡¯s first job after retiring from the Republican navy, he had no proven track record. Only the bottom-barrel escort rates had managed to seal the deal.


    ¡°It will be honored.¡± Glennon nodded, his voice suddenly steady ¡ªthough his face betrayed a man battling with fear¡ª. ¡°But I doubt we could do much if he decided to attack. That monster right there¡­it scares me, Vice-President. If you¡¯re a religious man, I suggest you pray or meditate. Hopefully they are just a ¡®patrol¡¯, and this is not an elaborate pirate ambush¡­¡¯


    Kimon nodded, chuckling at the veteran¡¯s morbid suggestion. ¡°Surely, we¡¯re not talking about an actual warship¡­right?¡±


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s a warship alright.¡± Glennon chuckled. ¡°Your sensors are too weak to see it, but mine are at least half as good as the navy¡¯s, and I¡¯ve got people fresh out of service looking at the readings. The acceleration alone screams military, and its active sensors are mean. The hull¡¯s geometry is built to deflect sensor pings to such a degree that my people only realized it because we were getting garbage radar returns. I wouldn¡¯t want to find out what kind of weapons it has. If I were you, Vice-President, I would be very fucking careful about listening to their instructions.¡±


    +++


    After another four hours, the ANS Whitefang had gotten close enough to the merchant convoy to attempt real-time communications. Albin had just woken up thirty minutes before, and was sitting in his compact flag bridge with a half-eaten {thing}-shaped pastry in hand.


    By now, his squadron had turned in place to show their propulsion packaged to the merchant convoy, slowing down in a precise curved course to attain a speed, acceleration and heading similar to the merchies and their escorts.


    ¡®Those poor fucking escorts¡­¡¯ He thought, barely holding back a chuckle. He knew exactly just how scared the poor sod in command of those corvettes had to be.


    Four under-armed, under-equipped and half-blind corvettes, against a proper cruiser and a pair of heavy frigates. His squadron could steamroll them even if it was commanded by a broken fridge computer; it wasn¡¯t even a question.


    Chowing down the last of the pastry, he turned to his communications officer.


    ¡°Lieutenant, hail the merchant fleet on the radio. Ask for the commanding officer of the escort ships, and the person in charge of the merchant ships.¡±


    ¡°Aye sir.¡±


    Only a minute later, he was greeted by two new faces on his terminal¡¯s screen.


    One was of a slightly chubby, green-eyed bald man with the barest hint of a second chin, wearing a black suit decorated with stylized animal pins made of a silvery-white alloy; platinum, rhodium or any other kind of precious metal worth a small fortune. The header above the transmission read:


    Kimon Rayden, Vice-President, Rayden & Sons Shipping Corporations


    The other was a distinctly military man with a chiseled, albeit aged, face and thick snow-white hair. He wore a military uniform, decorated with a handful of colorful ribbons above his left breast but otherwise plain-looking.


    Jonas Glennon, Commodore & CEO, 104 Security Services


    ¡°Gentlemen.¡± Albin nodded towards the camera lightly. ¡°On behalf of the duke, I thank you for acknowledging law and order. I¡¯m sure businessmen such as yourselves understand the need for safety and stability.¡±


    Commodore Glennon raised an eyebrow at his words, his mouth hanging slightly agape. Vice-President Rayden, however, took them in stride.


    ¡°Of course, of course¡­Commodore. We apologize for the misunderstanding, though I hope you understand we weren¡¯t expecting a welcome committee. We weren¡¯t expected any ship, for that matter¡­at least none with honest intentions in mind.¡±


    Albin nodded in acknowledgment. ¡°It is true that prior to His Grace¡¯s arrival, this system was unguarded. I understand that shutting off your transponders was meant to delay your detection by would-be malcontents. That is why you are excused. I hope, however, that it does not happen again.¡±


    The two men nodded emphatically, their shoulders sagging in relief.


    ¡°In any case, I would like to officially welcome you to Pollux. I¡¯ve been authorized to escort you until we pass the orbital path of Pollux VI. If you maintain your current flight plan, that will happen in approximately one and a half standard Terran days or thirty six standard Terran hours. Is that metric familiar to you?¡±


    ¡°It is.¡± Vice-President Ryden confirmed, though the question had obviously confused him.


    ¡°Excellent. If you need anything more, feel free to radio us on this frequency. Goodbye and good evening, gentlemen.¡±


    +++


    RSSC¡¯s merchant convoy arrived in Polaris a week later, having deccelerated for three days straight in order to enter geosynchronous orbit. It wasn¡¯t Kimon¡¯s first time in Polaris, having visited for trade two times in the last four years. ¡®Fringe duty¡¯, as his father called it, was the family¡¯s way of testing its youngest members¡¯ skills without risking too much. Trading in the core worlds was lucrative, but margins were thin and a single bad negotiation could set the company back millions. But out in the fringe worlds, the high demand for manufactured goods and low, irregular supply made trade a high-margin affair ¡ªthough earnings were limited¡ª.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The last time Kimon had been here, the family had sent a minder to cover for him if the situation got out of control. But this time Kimon was all alone at the top, and though the responsibility of so much capital was cause for much anxiety, he felt immense pride in his role¡­as well as the hunger of ambition that all up-and-coming merchants ought to hold in their hearts. And though Kimon was young, he was now a proper merchant.


    Which is why he was careful to note all the changes in the young colony, both on the ground and in orbit.


    Even the cheapest civilian shuttles had a proper long-range telescope, so it was no wonder the Camilla Rayden was capable of surveying the chilly planet¡¯s surface. Looking at the various settlements of the colonial state, a layman would only see steady growth ¡ªas expected of a profitable venture¡ª. Kimon saw not just growth, but change.


    The main focus of Polaris remained the same as before. Platinum group metals, or PGMs, the currency of interstellar civilization and some of the only raw materials merchants would willingly buy off your hands and ship to markets themselves.


    Yet he also saw expansions into other types of minerals. The mines and refineries looked the same as they would be in a platinum-rich area, but the spectroscopy scans Kimon had bought off the colony two years ago showed that they were opening entirely new mines in other areas, poor in PGMs but very rich in minerals like iron, nickel and copper. The backbones of manufacturing, yet utterly useless as exports, which meant the government of Polaris was looking to use them.


    And Kimon also knew one possible reason. It was orbiting right next to the fleet, the most important piece of infrastructure a colony had. Polaris¡¯s orbital was covered in scaffolding, with little heat signatures flying about. Human workers in exosuits, construction drones and even a pair of transorbital shuttles.


    They were expanding the station, a lot.


    ¡­


    ¡°Vice-President Rayden, it is good to see you.¡± Governor Polk greeted him in a decorated conference room, an obvious upgrade from the shuttle bay meetings they¡¯d had the past two times.


    ¡®Another change, to add to the ever-growing list¡¯ Kimon thought, putting on his ¡®friendly trader¡¯ face as he shook the governor¡¯s hand.


    ¡°It is good to see you too, Governor. The markets are hungry for platinum, as they always are.¡±


    ¡°And we are ready to provide, at a reasonable rate of course.¡± The woman replied, her handshake noticeably stronger than last time they¡¯d exchanged greetings.


    Kimon barely held back a raised eyebrow at the latter comment. In his experience, and those of many family elders, colonial governors were ¡ªwith very few exceptions¡ª all the same. Middling businessmen, company executives, military officers or bureaucrats that had the doors to higher power firmly shut in their faces, and decided to take another route.


    To their ¡®citizens¡¯, ¡®subjects¡¯, ¡®members¡¯ or ¡®loyalists¡¯ ¡ªthe term varied from place to place¡ª, they were absolute rulers who never took no for an answer and governed the colony with an iron fist. But to traders like him, who traded the hard work of their people for manufactured goods, luxury products, weapons and all the other things they needed or wanted, they were¡­submissive.


    ¡°Of¡­course, Governor. I suggest we get to it immediately.¡± He asked, hoping to startle her with speed. During his previous visit the Governor had led him through a carefully-controlled safari, hunting the exotic wildlife of Polaris, but the charm offensive had hardly changed his rates. If she wanted to play feisty, so be it: he was walking out of here richer anyhow.


    As was long-standing tradition in the merchant world, each party presented a folder containing all the goods they had to offer, as well as their price. This prevented tit-for-tat approaches where one party would increase the price of its goods and attempt to trade them for another high-priced good, effectively scamming its trading partners.


    Kimon and Polk both opened the folders at the same time, though neither actually looked at them. The mere existence of a price list in the other party¡¯s hands would keep a trader honest, but throughout time humans preferred to talk about business face-to-face rather than exchange neatly-written letters.


    ¡°Forty tons of H-PGMA at the standard ratio, at a hundred and fifty million per kilo.¡±


    H-PGMA was a standardized family of alloys which contained all or some metals of the platinum group. Known as white gold or veisgolt, after the metal that was once considered invaluable by humanity, it formed the basis for many national currencies and some states even accepted pure veisgolt bullion as currency.


    ¡°You¡¯re not serious?¡± Kimon balked at her offer. ¡°That¡¯s twenty-five more than the previous rate! The aurum is still tied to the platinum standard, Governor; my rates are pegged to the exchange rates. I¡¯ll give you one hundred and twenty-five, and I¡¯ll let this hiccup slide because this is our third trade.¡±


    Polk shook her head. ¡°I know what my goods are worth, Vice-President. Messenger boat came in a few days before you did; the Republicans and the Heggies aren¡¯t backing off, and the platinum standard is feeling the heat.That gives you plenty of room to make a tidy profit even with all the mercenaries you¡¯ve brought over. Those frigates are very¡­cute?¡± She chuckled, a most unusual reaction to gunboat diplomacy.


    This entire situation was wrong. Those mercenaries weren¡¯t just anti-piracy screens: they were supposed to serve as intimidation. All¡¯s fair in love and war, and war was war whether you fought with in space or in the negotiation room. But why wasn¡¯t Polk even slightly affected by the presence of four warships in orbit of her colony?


    ¡®Wait, the¡­oh, fuuuck.¡¯ Kimon¡¯s eyebrows twitched as realization struck.


    This¡­¡¯duke¡¯ and his warships had turned Polaris into a protectorate.


    He was no longer talking with the absolute ruler of a tiny little colony weeks away from civilization. This was the mere pawn of a warlord, one with enough firepower to wipe his trade convoy ten times over.


    +++


    Further negotiations had proven¡­regrettable. The price of veisgolt had been the subject of some back-and-forth, but Kimon thankfully managed to bring it down to an acceptable ¡ªif barely¡ª one hundred and thirty five million aurums per kilogram.


    Of course, he hadn¡¯t actually paid out the vast majority of the sum. Like most colonies, Polaris circulated a tightly-controlled currency made up of synth-fiber notes, and the aurum sitting in its vaults was useless until some other trader arrived with goods to sell. Instead, he¡¯d paid with goods.


    Electronics, spare parts, industrial goods and a variety of mining, refining and machining equipment. Such items fetched a very high price in out-of-the-way places like Vicky¡¯s Arm; a modular CNC fabrication suite, the kind that could fit in a standard transport container, might sell for three million aurums in the core worlds but five in the outer rim.


    He¡¯d also sold a flight of ten transorbital shuttles, the rugged fuel-efficient kind that colonies absolutely loved, as well as an equal number of trainers.


    Last but definitely not least¡­missiles.


    Space was dangerous, and well-defended were more than happy to sell sub-par defense equipment to third parties for absurd prices. Trusted trading companies like RSMC were licensed to buy export variants of defense equipment and sell them, and the profit margins on such goods were so utterly insane that the mountains of bureaucracy were absolutely worth it.


    And that was all he sold¡­but not all he bought.


    Just before the merchant convoy left, a fuel ship arrived from Pollux V under the escort of a mean-looking destroyer. Governor Polk offered him fuel¡­at a crazy price. Market price, but for the core worlds. The offer had completely blindsided him¡­and made him a tidy profit. Had he paid more for the bullion? Yes, but he¡¯d also paid significantly less for the fuel: two thirds of what a scammer like the Lion of Leonis would charge.


    Profiting after being outplayed ¡ªby a colonial governor of all people¡ª left Kimon feeling¡­strange. Where in the infinite hells had she found that confidence?

 Chapter 9 - Slow Progress

    It had been more than a month since the exodus fleet arrived above the planet once known as Pollux V. James stood in his flagship¡¯s observatory, gazing out to the cloudy atmosphere of Domusec. The thought that this would serve as the new home of his dynasty brought shame to him, in its current state. Water covered close to two thirds of the surface, yet much of it was in a state of perpetual frost. The land was gravel, sand and clay; no organism had evolved, and so none had died to turn the land into proper soil.


    ¡®Soon. Soon we will have our new home.¡¯


    A gentle knock on the nearby bulkhead caught his attention. Turning around, he saw his flag lieutenant, Cory Gaines, standing at the observatory¡¯s entrance with a tablet in his hand.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°The group of ten has assembled, sir. They await your presence to begin.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡± James nodded lightly, turning to steal one last glance at Domusec before he walked out of the observatory.


    ¡­


    The ¡®Group of Ten¡¯, as many had taken to calling the most important people of the dynasty, was a refined list of all the people James had met with over the past month for important matters. From industrial planning to diplomacy, defense and more, these ten people filled it all.


    Half of them were civilians. Business executives, to be precise: the CEOs and presidents of the major defense, construction, mining and refining corporations. Since resources were limited and manpower scarce, the normal civilian freedoms and processing had been dealt away with.


    The other half were the true core of his dynasty, because while the execs were loyal¡­they were still businessmen. They were biased to decisions that would send more money their way, whatever the situation. No, his loyalists were better focused. Biased, yes, like every other human being in the universe since the birth of the species, but their biases conformed to his own in a way a business¡¯s never would. They were all sons and daughters of the dynasty in the truest sense of the word, raised and educated in the Domus Pupili.


    Commander Harriet Noriega¡¯s role was¡­fluid. She was his right hand, acting as a diplomat and representative of his personal interests. She managed matters that didn¡¯t require his direct input, acting as a gatekeeper and adviser. Commander Michael Smith, on the other hand, was his highest ranking man whose job was solely military in nature. He made sure to keep both officers and enlisted sharp, with frequent exercises, lessons and war games.


    Olaf Hund was his constantly-tired chief engineer, running his operations from the bowels of the fleet support ship Blacksmith¡¯s Bane, whose fab floors hadn¡¯t stopped churning out materiel in weeks. And of course nobody could forget Doctor Alfonso Grey, who was in charge of Domusec¡¯s terraforming.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to begin with the terraforming team¡¯s progress. Chief Grey, what do you have for us?¡±


    As far as James could remember, Alfonso Grey had been a very conservative, very frail man without much of a spark in his eye. Some attributed it to a weak mind, others pointed to how late he¡¯d received his first rejuvenat treatment: the man was barely seventy but he was looking ninety. Yet in the last few weeks, the weak old man that Grey had once been had disappeared. In his place was a fiery terraformist who took great ¡ªand obvious¡ª pride in his work.


    ¡°Good news, Your Grace.¡± The doctor smiled. ¡°To remind anybody who didn¡¯t read the weekly reports, two weeks ago we sent teams of engineers and surveyors to scout the area of Domusec¡¯s first settlement. In the time since then, we have begun construction of the necessary infrastructure to oxygenate the local atmosphere.¡±


    With a wave of his gloved hand, a satellite image of the valley appeared over the table. A large river ran through the middle of it, splitting and merging a dozen times from beginning to end of the valley. At the center of it, James saw a small but organized outpost.


    ¡°Until Apogee¡¯s engineers can deliver a new batch of fusion generators, the camp is relying on a small backup supplied by the Hephaestus.¡± Gray nodded to chief engineer Olaf Hund,


    ¡°The Engineer Corps lives to serve.¡± The lithe man replied half-jokingly.


    ¡°Yes, yes¡­I must say, Chief Hund and his engineers have been most helpful. As have, of course, those from the civilian sector.¡± Grey noted, more as an afterthought than anything. ¡°We have completed construction of a concrete factory, which is already using local gravel, sand and clay to give us what we need to construct the oxygenation plant. If we receive the expected fusion generators from Apogee Corporation¡¯s factory ship within the next two to three weeks, we can begin production immediately. That is all for now, Your Grace.¡±


    James nodded, feeling satisfied. ¡°Keep up the good work, Doctor.¡±


    ¡°Now, since the ball is already in engineering¡¯s court, I would like Chief Hund to continue.¡± He turned to the seasoned military engineer. ¡°What are our current projects, and how are they proceeding? I am most anxious to hear about the L1 anchorage.¡±


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    Olaf took a sip from his tea mug, clearing his throat.


    ¡°We currently have three main projects started or due to start, Your Grace. The first is, as you noted, the station under construction between Domusec and its largest moon, Alpha. All of you ought to have noticed it, as the fleet is currently orbiting Domusec near the L1 point.¡±


    With a few taps on his tablet, the table¡¯s holographic projectors whirred to life. A rod-shaped structure, surrounded by habitation rings and docking areas from top to bottom.


    ¡°The simple truth is that we currently lack resources, and gravitic-plating is expensive and time-consuming to manufacture. With respect to that, the L1 Anchorage will be built with more¡­anachronistic features. The spire will contain zero-gee manufacturing areas, computer systems and power generation, as with most stations back in the Imperium. But the rings will rotate on magnetic bearings, substituting gravity with centrifugal force. This will save us two to three months, per ring, on just the mag-plating for a flat area, though space will be more limited. The docks, meanwhile, are simplified external docking clamps instead of internal bays. Maintenance and construction will be hampered slightly, and bad actors will know what ships are docked there¡­but it saves us a whole lot of time, resources and manpower.¡±


    James nodded in understanding. ¡°What¡¯s the proposed capacity?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s modular, Your Grace.¡± Olaf shrugged. ¡°Each section is two standard-gravity rings, two half-gravity rings and up to twenty docking areas ¡ªdepending on the ship¡¯s size¡ª. Each standard strength gravity ring is paired with a half-strength one, after which we place half the docking areas, then the rest of the rings in a similar layout and then the rest of the docks, and so on and so forth. This way the strain is more spread out throughout the entire area of the shard. The proposed interior design makes space for up to twenty thousand people, and could allow the entire navy to dock in addition to a third of the civilian ships.¡±


    ¡°And the cost?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not light.¡± The engineer sighed. ¡°We¡¯re talking about a hundred and fifty thousand tons of metal, or a third of Valeria¡¯s production for the year. Plus fifty percent of the Blacksmith¡¯s production in parts, plates, screws and circuitry, though I expect that to drop to twenty percent as we set up more manufacturing inside the shard. Your Grace could, of course, lengthen the time it takes to build the station and lessen the strain on the fleet¡¯s manufacturing.¡±


    ¡°How long would it take, with your proposed plan?¡±


    ¡°Shard¡¯s done in five months. The first ring set¡­by the end of the year, and another eight months until the section is fully operational. Twenty months in total. For which I would need a third of Valeria Mining¡¯s output, and fifty percent of production on the Blacksmith for six months, dropping to twenty by the eight-month mark.¡±


    The price was¡­significant, but James understood it was necessary. Without a proper orbital, they couldn¡¯t set up space industry any further than they had by now. Sure, they had factory ships and mobile shipyards, but they were expensive, slow and inefficient.


    A medium-sized shipyard could make a cruiser in a year. As it were now, Kim Industries would need eighteen to twenty months and it would have space for nothing else. A proper zero-gee factory could build fusion generators and hyperdrives in half the time it took Apogee¡¯s tiny specialized factory-ship to do so, and with scale came a drop in the pricetag and a rise in quality.


    Furthermore¡­there was the matter of food. The half-strength gravity rings weren¡¯t quite good for low-gee manufacturing, but at point-five gee aeroponycs would flourish. While the expedition had enough growing capacity to feed its awake members, that would change drastically if they started waking up people left and right. Without some good farms growing bags of quno and hundreds of tilarp ¡ªgrain and fish made a helluva team¡ª he¡¯d be limited to less than a tenth of the exodus¡¯s true size.


    ¡°Good.¡± He nodded. ¡°You have my approval; Commander Noriega will handle any details. Please, continue.¡±


    ¡°Very well. Our second project, and one that begun a few days ago, is the construction of two Reliance-class patrol boats for the Colonial State of Polaris. I think I ought to let Ms. Kim talk about this one.¡± The man turned to Kim Industries¡¯ CEO.


    ¡°Well, Sun-hee? How is it looking?¡± James asked.


    ¡°Slow, as expected, Your Grace¡± Kim Sun-hee replied.


    As part of the trade agreement between the dynasty and the colonial government of Polaris, the latter was allowed to commission the construction of up to four system patrol boats. Hardy, nimble and cheap craft that could safeguard the security of the system from most pirates and attempts at intimidation.


    A week ago, Governor Polk had formally requested the construction of two ships. At the same time, a transorbital shuttle had arrived in the Domusec-Alpha L1 point carrying an entire kilogram of 24-karat rhodium, as down-payment. Sun-hee¡¯s security almost had to beat Apogee¡¯s technicians away with a stick: that was enough rhodium to build four cruiser-grade fusion reactorsa and hyperdrives.


    ¡°The limitations of our mobile shipyard, as well as the small output of Valeria Mining¡¯s operations in the inner asteroid belt, mean the ships will be ready in six months. We are in the strange situation were we have the expertise to work out all the complicated stuff ¡ªwiring, weapons and propulsion¡ª but we simply can¡¯t build the hull any faster with our current facilities.¡±


    ¡°Unfortunate¡­but expected.¡± James sighed. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose waking up more people out of cryosleep would help?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve nowhere to put them.¡± Harriet Noriega chimed in. ¡°As it is half of the civilian ships are just containers of food and cryosleep capsules. We¡¯ve got about sixteen thousand awake and working, and if we start waking up more the enviromental systems will begin straining. Plus¡­most of those asleep have families.¡±


    Everybody understood the implicit message. The overwhelming majority of people currently awake didn¡¯t have dependents who didn¡¯t need to be awakened, but the opposite was true for the skilled workers still asleep. Waking up a father six months earlier than his child would be horrible for morale; after a certain length of time the rift between the ¡®early birds¡¯ and their families would become irreperable.


    ¡°Then¡­we will proceed as is.¡± James concluded.


    Slow and steady progress was better than rushing ahead without caring about the future consequences. Mistakes made during the early months and years of the colony could cause issues for generations, and lead to¡­untenable situations.


    ¡°Ms. Kim and Chief Hund, thank you for your reports. Jean-Constantin, please tell us what your farm ships are doing to supplement our supplies, and what you need for future expansion. I would very much like to hear what the Saint-Germaine Group and Chief Grey¡¯s department have to tell us about growing crops on Domusec¡­¡±


    +++


    Meta


    Domusec is an abbreviation of Domus Secondus, meaning ¡®Second Home¡¯ in Latin.

 Chapter 10 - Industrial Dreams

    Katrina had seen many factories in her life, both on the ground and in orbit. Some were highly automated, while others relied almost entirely on human workers ¡ªworth less than the robot they stood in for¡ª and cheap, simple machinery.


    The ANS Blacksmith¡¯s Bane was different. Efficient like nothing nothing else, even to a layman¡¯s eyes like her own. There wasn¡¯t an extra lightbulb in the entire fabrication floor, one of several that spanned the majority of the cruiser-sized factory ship.


    ¡°Like what you see, Governor?¡± A familiar voice called out to her.


    Turning around, she came face-to-face with the defacto ruler of the system, and one of the strangest people she had ever met. Duke James Akrites was a hard man to describe, save for his skill at delegating away nearly every task and looking far too young to be running a self-sufficient state.


    As in their previous meetings, he was dressed in a laconic naval uniform: from far away he looked much like any other officer. Instead of a bumbling retinue, only a single man accompanied him; an even younger man that served as his ¡®flag lieutenant¡¯. She¡¯d never heard of the title before, though she understood the lieutenant served as some kind of aide.


    ¡®Maybe¡­something more?¡¯ The thought surfaced, but quickly dissipated as Katrina focused on the present.


    ¡°You run a tight ship, Your Grace.¡± She said, careful as she pronounced the title ¡ªwhich she had only learned of by listening to other members of the dynasty refer to him¡ª.


    The man hadn¡¯t been bothered by her wrong way of addressing him during their first meeting, but she¡¯d still lost sleep over it. Nobles were infamous for their strict adherence to protocol and ceremony, even if this particular duke seemed different in every respect to the feudal elites of the sector.


    ¡°I¡¯m but prow on a very big ship, Governor. My chief engineer and his staff are the true heroes on this hull.¡± Duke Akrites chuckled lightly, walking slowly through the least-busy areas of the fab floor. Workers and technicians passed them by the dozen, barely glancing at them as they went about their shift.


    Katrina was quick to move along with him, splitting her attention between the massive multi-axis CNC machines just ten meters away and the words of her supposed equal.


    ¡°And where might this chief be, Your Grace? I assume that he ought to be present on such a tour.¡±


    The duke shook his head lightly. ¡°Chief Hund is far too busy doing actual work to entertain us, Governor. I, on the other hand, can afford to spend a few hours away from my office. Showing my face around the fleet is an important part of the job, and I¡¯m more than happy to admire the work of my people.¡±


    The two walked side-by-side for a few more minutes, engaging in light conversation as they looked at the massive machines at the heart of akritan industry. Floor Three was dedicated entirely to precision machining, which translated into massive lathes, grinders and mills. Dozens of technicians nursed each machine at all times, with hundreds more moving around the factory with tools, materials and even small carts carrying spare parts, lubricants and machining equipment.


    By the five minute mark, the silence had gotten so awkward that Katrina didn¡¯t know how to reignite the conversation. She clenched her fists and sighed in frustration, only to see the Duke smile at her.


    ¡°So why are you here, Governor? I doubt you spent ten hours in a transorbital shuttle just to have a look around the machines.¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± Katrina gathered her words. ¡°My people need training, Your Grace.¡±


    The duke raised an eyebrow at her. ¡°I think it¡¯s a little early if you want military assistance, Governor¡­¡±


    ¡°No, not that.¡± She shook her head. ¡°Civilian training. Industrial training.¡± She waved around the factory.


    ¡°Please elaborate.¡±


    Katrina took a deep breath. ¡°A few weeks ago, when RSSC¡¯s merchant convoy was in orbit, we traded a lot of our export goods for tools ¡ªlike your own¡ª. We are no great superpower, Your Grace, but my people are proud of their independence. Buying spare parts and such from merchant convoys and wandering factory ships is both expensive and¡­tiring.¡±


    ¡°So you want your own industrial base, outside of the mineral industry?¡± He surmised.


    ¡°Quite.¡± Katrina nodded. ¡°Unfortunately, in our rush to get the best machinery we could buy¡­we forgot about the human component. My people can make most of what the colony needs, but electronics and advanced mechanical components are out of our league. It appears, however, that you do not have that problem.¡± She chuckled, gesturing to the bustling factory floor.


    The duke nodded, his face forming into a thoughtful expression. After a few moments, he spoke.


    ¡°You understand that there¡¯s going to be a price, yes?¡±


    She winced, having expected those terrible words. ¡°I do. What do you want?¡±


    +++


    ¡°What do you think, Olaf?¡± James asked his long-time engineering expert over a cup of delicious matcha tea.


    Olaf Hund was an old man who, under normal circumstances, should¡¯ve been promoted to a flag rank years ago. Promotion had been proposed to him many times, but each time he¡¯d rejected the prestige and safety of a cushy job in the dynasty¡¯s main military shipyards over field command. The man wasn¡¯t a bureaucrat, but an engineer, and James was certain he¡¯d throw himself in a plasma smelter before becoming part of the chair force.


    ¡°It¡¯s a good deal.¡± The man nodded, taking a shallow sip off his own mug. Like most high-ranking officers, the veteran engineer had his own stash of chai from special and unique varieties.


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    Continuing, he said. ¡°We¡¯re practically overflowing with experienced machinists and industrial engineers, but we are dangerously low on manual labor ¡ªespecially if you want the valley turned into a proper city in the near term.¡±


    The harsh reality of construction was that robots were expensive. No matter the circumstances, a half-trained human worker was more capable and hardier than the automata that was designed to replace him. Specialized roles did benefit from specialized robots, but many jobs needed human workers capable of critical and out-of-the-box thinking that programmed robots were physically incapable of.


    Maintaining the fleet was more than easy with the presence of factory ships and mobile shipyards, and even building new ships ¡ªlike the Reliance-class PCBs¡ª was possible, because of the high degree of automation and low efficiency.


    Building a colonial city was an entirely different ball game.


    James and his staff had been mulling over the construction plans, which showed high costs in time, people and resources for mediocre results. There simply weren¡¯t enough hands to lay the bricks, concrete and rebar, even though humanity had gotten civil engineering down to an exact science long before man had left the solar system.


    The latest deal with Governor Polk had changed that.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought.¡± James nodded. ¡°Do you have any idea who to send?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got just the woman.¡±


    +++


    The akritan crownworld had been a diverse planet with a variety of ecosystems. Most people lived in the temperate zones between the southern tropic and the south pole, yet many people had chosen to live elsewhere.


    Deputy chief engineer Laura Watson was one such person. Her complexion had been snow-white even before she joined the navy, as her hometown had seen more snow than sun for the entirety of her youth.


    Life in the northern tundras meant she was more than ready when the shuttle¡¯s hatch dropped into the spaceport¡¯s tarmac, letting in a gust of cold air. The same couldn¡¯t be said for all her staff, though the squad of marines acting as her security detail were more than comfortable in their sealed exo-suits.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get moving, people! Let¡¯s not let the welcoming commitee bear the wind much longer.¡± She shouted to the rest of the shuttle¡¯s passenger¡¯s. Dozens of trained technicians and engineers rushed out at her words, while the ten marines walked out with the casual pace only temperature-controlled carapace armor could afford.


    Twenty meters, away, standing next to a convoy of ground vehicles, the polarisians looked at them with obvious curiosity.


    ¡°Deputy Chief Watson?¡± A female voice came from the center of a group. A svelte woman in a fur coat walked out of the crowd.


    Laura walked forward to meet her half way, where they shook hands. ¡°That¡¯s me. And you are?¡±


    ¡°Deputy Chief Paula Styles, State Engineering Corps. I¡¯m going to be your liaison for the duration of your people¡¯s stay on our planet.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you, Deputy Styles. I¡¯d be happy to introduce my people to yours, but how about we get out of the cold and inside a place with four walls and a roof. Some of my people are¡­less adapted to the chilly winds.¡±


    The colonial engineer looked at her for a moment before smirking. ¡°Of course. The convoy is ready to depart at a moment¡¯s notice, and we¡¯ve got more than enough room for all of you and your tools. The governor has reserved an apartment complex for your group, and we have organized a small buffet in the ground floor¡¯s common room.¡±


    +++


    Nikolai Johnson lived and breathed civil engineering. Born to two engineers managing their own construction firm, he¡¯d spent his entire life touring construction sites and learning about the family craft. He¡¯d had a bright future ahead of him, until the Republican Stock Market experienced a ¡®hiccup¡¯. While most businesses struggled, his crashed. Nearly all his investors went bankrupt, leaving the firm high on debt and low on income.


    Packing his bags and grabbing those of his family and company that were willing to move away from their home-world, Nikolai was one of the first to join Katrina Polk¡¯s colonial expedition to Pollux. In the years since, he planned the construction of entire city blocks, industrial districts and their underlying infrastructure, and his service had earned the trust of the executive council and the governor¡¯s office.


    That usually meant a more elastic budget and minimal oversight as he went about his work¡­but there were exceptions. When the governor said jump, he was expected to ask ¡®how high¡¯. When she said ¡°pack your bags and build a city on another planet¡±, Nikolai accepted immediately. Not that he didn¡¯t want to: he lived to build. Planning an entire new city? Just the thought made him hard.


    Of course, there were a few pesky details. Such as the fact he wouldn¡¯t be afforded the usual lack of oversight and ample reserves of trust, because he wasn¡¯t working for the State of Polaris. The Akritan Duchy had earned a lot of goodwill among the people of his new home, but they were still an unknown entity¡­save for their military prowess.


    Take, for example, the matte black armor worn by the Akritan Marine Corps trooper sitting next to him in the shuttle. It added almost half a meter to the marine¡¯s height, and though bulky it was flexible. No place in the armor was exposed; even the joints were covered by a strange leather-like mesh that contained ballistic-thermal protective jell ¡ªaccording to the all-too-eager marine that had answered his question at the behest of his superior¡ª.


    <Attention, all hands.> A crewman¡¯s voice came from the headset wrapped around Nikolai¡¯s ears. <We¡¯ve reached Domusec ¡ªalso known as Pollux V¡ª low orbit. In ten seconds we will begin our atmospheric descent. Please brace yourselves.>


    ¡®What?!¡¯ Nikolai thought, shocked at the announcer¡¯s words.


    He¡¯d seen the shuttle land on the spaceport -in Polaris-, and it had taken off without refueling. To think that it had arrived at Pollux, no, Domusec, and was now descending to the surface without refueling was insane. This was either the most fuel-efficient shuttle he¡¯d ever seen, or it was hiding an extra tank of reaction mass somewhere.


    The descent maneuvers passed like a breeze. The shuttle¡¯s inertial compensators were obviously military-grade; he didn¡¯t feel a thing until it switched to atmospheric flight. Within a short fifteen minutes they had landed on the freshly-paved tarmac.


    <Landing complete. Please put on your oxygen concentration mask.>


    The transparent re-breather, meant to concentrate the oxygen in Domusec¡¯s air to the levels needed by a human, had been on Nikolai¡¯s face for the last two minutes.


    By the time Nikolai had gathered his belongings and gotten up from his seat, his marine escorts had streamed out of the shuttle while the sergeant in charge spoke with another marine, dressed in the very same armor.


    As he and his retinue walked out, they were welcomed by an impressive sight. The valley was enormous, likely the result of extremely intense tectonic activity tens of millions of years ago. The valley¡¯s surface looked almost¡­pristine, for lack of a better word. Without native bioforms to turn them into soil, the gravel, sand and limestone that made up most of the planet¡¯s surface remained neat and clean.


    The flatness also helped. He¡¯d been provided with the valley¡¯s topographic data, which was in some ways stellar and in others terrible. For now, however, both bad and good worked in their favor. The mountains surrounding them were all at least five kilometers deep, with some peaks reaching ten or twelve.


    While this would make for an extremely isolated enviroment in a normal evolutionary process -a quarantine zone, so to speak-, it also meant the oxygen that would soon be pumped from the hydrolysis plant would be contrated within the valley instead of escaping.


    But Nikolai was more interested in the terrain of the valley itself.


    Close to eighty-five percent of the area was entirely flat, with the difference between the deepest lake and the tallest hill being a measly thirty meters. With solid rock under his feet and construction materials in abundance, Nikolai was left grinning ear to ear.


    ¡°Time to build a city.¡±

 Chapter 11 - Too much of a good thing

    The flag bridge was all but silent, and not for a lack of people. The lights had switched to crimson red in preparation for combat, illuminating dozens of sailors and officers hunched over consoles and holotables with absolute focus.


    ¡°Time to dash, fifteen seconds.¡± Commander Michael Smith reported.


    James didn¡¯t need reminding: his eyes hadn¡¯t left the holographic battlescreen for minutes. At the center of his focus were seven red-tinted ship signatures on an intercept course with the planet Polaris. Four warships and three ¡®troop transports¡¯ , their drive cones turned towards the planet as they deccelerated.


    Steadily approaching them were over sixty green-tinted arrows. Missiles, yet not quite. Instead of racing to meet their targets, dodging and weaving and lighting up their prey with active sensors, they flew through the void with their drives ¡®cold¡¯.


    ¡°Ten seconds.¡±


    The missiles were poised to activate at any moment. A single sub-millisecond pulse of encyrpted orders received via wisker-laser would turn the ¡®space debris¡¯ into advanced ship-killing implements.


    Their target was passing through an imaginary sphere measuring some fifty thousand kilometers, inside of which the enemy¡¯s counter-missiles would prove all but ineffective even with automated fire-control systems capable of detecting and firing at a threat in less than a second.


    ¡°Orders away. Five seconds.¡±


    Automated systems sent the last order those missiles would ever read before accomplishing the goal they were built for.


    The missiles wouldn¡¯t receive it immediately, but the travel time of the attack order had been accounted. Even the greenest lieutenant in the youngest navy knew to account for the speed of light during communications between any two objects in space.


    Whether that was a patrol boat and an illicit mining vessel, or a two hundred and fifty kiloton battlecruiser and its missiles.


    ¡°Missiles gone bulldog, confirmed.¡± Smith¡¯s voice remained cold and unfeeling, even as hundreds of tons of missile sprinted towards their targets


    The enemy¡¯s automated systems responded almost immediately; a missile¡¯s drive plume was visible on infrared scanners from light seconds away. Though James couldn¡¯t see the enemy ships, he could imagine crews and automated systems scrambling to defend against the ambush. Laser clustersemptied their power banks, point defense cannons unleashed storms of kinetic penetrators and counter-missiles would stream out of launchers in a futile attempt to defend the convoy¡¯s core.


    The battlescreen shifted as sensor data streamed in from the carnage light seconds away. Two of the ¡®troop transports¡¯ were broadcasting as ¡®destroyed¡¯ alongside one of the enemy¡¯s frigates, while the flagship ¡ªANS Whitefang¡ª had been ¡®hit¡¯ in its propulsion systems and had cut its acceleration by two thirds.


    ¡°Good hits on all targets.¡± Smith noted.


    ¡°We still have live targets. Have the squadron go to full acceleration and set electronic warfare systems to ship defense. Let¡¯s not get too haughty.¡±


    The battle was all but won, but they still had a single ¡®troop transport¡¯ to eliminate and the enemy¡¯s firepower remained significant. It would be some until the opposing force¡¯s alerted defense systems could be pummeled into dust by missile and kinetic volleys.


    +++


    ¡°It¡¯s been a while since we¡¯ve had a gathering of such size, hmm?¡± Katrina mused as she looked ¡®out¡¯ towards the view-screen, holding a glass of polarii wine.


    ¡°A bit more than a year, yes.¡± James agreed, cutting into a juicy ribeye steak with gusto.


    The pair of them sat alone, their table noticeably separated from the rest. The restaurant, one of the first businesses jointly owned by akritan and polarii citizens, was filled with high-ranking officers, business executives and intellectuals from both polities that used the latest event to socialize with each other.


    ¡°Hungry much, are we?¡± She chuckled with a look of amazement as the half-kilo steak vanished in minutes.


    ¡°I¡¯m always hungry after success, and this was a big one. For the both of us, and our people.¡± He replied, discretely gesturing to the tables shared by officers of the akritan and polarii navies, as well as the marine corps and army.


    And what a success it had been.


    The Akritan Dynasty had been at war for a decade; the unexpected peace could quickly dull an edge honed over half a generation of constant battle, and ¡®the future¡¯ looked no more peaceful than the Imperium they¡¯d been exiled from a year ago.


    Constant exercises, including the this very last one, had kept the tens of thousands of men and women of the akritan navy ¡ªas well as its defense industries¡ª from forgetting the hard-fought lessons of war.


    As for the Polarii State, the recent exercises has served as the biggest operation since the founding of its navy some four months ago with the delivery of two Reliance-class patrol boats from Kim Industries¡¯ mobile shipyard.


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    While its ratings, officers and marines had received thorough training by akritan servicemen, never before had entire crews and ships of the nascent navy fought together. Though I Squadron, as its first unit, had served a minor role, the realistic exercise enviroment had pointed out a number of unpolished areas and kinks that needed to be hammered out.


    ¡°It¡¯s about to be a bigger one for your industry.¡± Katrina smiled, sliding a tablet over to his side of the table.


    James put down his cutlery and picked it up with some measure of curiosity; it didn¡¯t take long for his suspicions to be confirmed.


    ¡°Two more ships?¡±


    Katrina shrugged. ¡°The simple act of not needing to back down in the face of predatory merchants and ask for a fair price has done wonders for the economy. And with our nascent industrial base absorbing less people than the mining sector¡­the military will be a good employer. The state budget can support it; it¡¯s going to take a lot more to dent the surplus we¡¯ve gained in the last year.¡±


    It didn¡¯t take a math genius to work the numbers, and it certainly didn¡¯t take a politician to realize that unemployment was a bad thing for society. Each patrol boat needed one hundred and fifty sailors and a third as many marines while in space. While docked, maintenance required skilled workers by the hundred as well as spare parts that had to be built somewhere.


    And while a lot of the technical knowledge was still in akritan hands, the dynasty could hardly spare the manpower to repair another nation¡¯s warships.


    ¡°The Ministry of Defense has run the numbers. Each patrol boat will employ two hundred servicemen and as many civilian contractors -polarii citizens-. That¡¯s point-two percent of the population, per ship. And the state is paying good money for both servicemen and contractors.¡±


    ¡°You want to build them in Polaris orbit?¡± James noted as he read through the proposal. ¡°I¡¯m not against the transfer of technology and industrial know-how, but it¡¯s going to cut into the profits of my ship-builders. Those boats might be cheap compared to a cruiser, but they are still worth thirty million marks a piece. You know that¡¯s going to put a dent in my economy.¡±


    ¡°But I also know you want to put those shipyards to better use.¡± Katrina countered. ¡°And I¡¯m sure Kim Industries would rather work on a new batch of destroyers rather than a couple of system-locked patrol boats. They are worth¡­what, half a billion marks a piece?¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡± James shrugged, sliding the tablet back to her. ¡°You¡¯ll have to send some negotiators to Kim Industries, officially, to change the current terms of the agreement. I believe they¡¯ll agree, though they will want a cut of whatever new company you¡¯re planning to set up.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s quite alright, Your Grace.¡± Katrina smirked, picking up her wine glass once more. ¡°A toast, to our continued friendship.¡±


    ¡°To friendship.¡±


    +++


    For a leader, there is no greater feeling than watching something being built. Be it a mayor overlooking a newly constructed bridge across a river or an emperor witnessing the assembly of an orbital ring, the feeling was one and the same.


    It was that same feeling that filled James¡¯ veins as he stepped into the crisp evening air of Domusec and took a deep breath. The planet¡¯s climate was cold, but not too cold for human habitation. Sensor data showed Cradle Valley experienced highs of twenty degrees C in the summer and lows of minus five in the winter, with a mean temperature of twelve.


    For most of the colonists, who hailed from the moon of Jask, the mere ability to breath fresh air and move at standard gravity without needing air recyclers and grav plating was luxury enough. A little cold would hardly deter such a hardy, loyal folk.


    ¡°Marvelous.¡± He whispered, taking in the sights around the military spaceport some distance away from Cradleton.


    In only eleven months, the air of Cradle Valley had gone from just four percent oxygen to twenty-two point five. In another two weeks, the electrolysis plant¡¯s job would be complete and it would be broken up and transferred to other isolated areas.


    Of course, artificial means weren¡¯t the only ways oxygen content was increasing. The few oceans that were liquid had been seeded with enhanced cyanobacteria and iron oxide, while a select few areas had seen the introduction of bacteria and hardy plant species. Cradle Valley had, of course, been one of them. The enormous valley was slowly turning green with the help of hardy grasses, moss and the relevant bacteria.


    ¡°Welcome to Domusec, Your Grace!¡± Alfonso Grey, they chief of terraforming operations, shouted through the rumbling of the shuttle¡¯s atmospheric engines.


    The two men quickly approached each other, with the chief bowing lightly. ¡°I hope your trip was smooth.¡±


    ¡°It was.¡± James nodded. ¡°We¡¯re lucky to have skilled pilots.¡±


    ¡°I agree, though not for the reason you may think.¡± Chief Grey replied, gesturing to a waiting convoy of wheeled vehicles. Simple but hardy and running on hydrocarbons synthesized from the excess hydrogen of the hydrolysis plant, the four-by-fours had become the workhorse of the nascent colony.


    The gathering quickly got into the convoy, which sped away towards the city.


    ¡°Do tell.¡±


    ¡°Terraforming is about collecting data just as much as acting on it. Some of the most important data in our collection, renewed every week, is that of major storms. Your chief of staff has been kind enough to loan several pilots experienced with atmospheric flight under rough conditions to form a surveillance team.¡±


    ¡®So that¡¯s where those marine pilots went¡­¡¯ James realized, nodding along. ¡°So how is it going? The terraforming, of course.¡±


    ¡°Smoothly.¡± Grey replied with a satisfied smile. ¡°We¡¯re preparing sites outside the valley for hydrolysis plants, which thanks to our experience with Plant One will be cheaper, more efficient and require less manpower to operate. As for the organic side, we¡¯re conducting weekly flights -once again thanks to those pilots from the marine corps- seeding the seas and lands with bacteria that can survive in the harsh conditions and pave the way for more complex organisms.¡±


    ¡°I see you¡¯re already a step ahead inside the valley¡¯s bounds.¡± James noted, gazing outside the window to the patches of grass and shrubbery.


    ¡°But of course. We¡¯ve introduced several species of grass, shrubs, moss as well as the insects that depend on them.¡±


    ¡°Insects? So we¡¯ve reached the level of fauna?¡± James asked in amazement, only to realize he sounded excited about the presence of bugs. The thought brought an unexpected smile to his lips.


    ¡°It is a big milestone.¡± Grey said. ¡°We¡¯re introducing a variety of arthropods such as ants, spiders and grasshoppers, as well as bees and dragonflies.¡±


    At the mention of locusts, James frowned. ¡°And how will they be controlled, Chief? I do hope you have a plan to prevent entire swarms from growing and consuming all the grass.¡±


    ¡°Rest assured, Your Grace, we have poured a not-insignificant number of our expertise into the matter; there was a plan in place before we even got to cultivating the first eggs in orbit.¡± The veteran terraformist chuckled. ¡°Grasshoppers will actually serve as a primary feeding source for the first avian and terrestrial animals we will be introducing, such as blue jays, and turtles.¡±


    ¡°I see¡­keep me apprised of any developments on a weekly basis.¡±


    The conversation continued for quite some time, the two men discussing plans within plans as to developing their new home.

 Chapter 12 - Agricultural Dreams

    When James thought of the word ¡®city¡¯, many things came to mind. Akritan cities were efficient as they were aesthetic, a luxury afforded to them by virtue of bureaucratic efficiency and large-scale automated maintenance systems.


    Any ¡®city boy¡¯ expected towering high-rises, efficient mass transportation systems, careful industrial planning and a general propensity to go build vertically rather than horizontally. City real estate was expensive.


    None of that applied to the nascent capital of the Akritan Duchy. Cradleton¡¯s tallest building, the headquarters of the dynasty¡¯s civilian government, was a measly four stories tall -barely twenty meters-. The average apartment building was even shorter at three stories, while the outskirts were filled with single-story warehouses, workshops and such.


    Considering the low population density -just thirty thousand- mass transits systems would remain limited to a number of buses and trams for several months to come. The roads were hardly busy, though the handful of vehicles on the road made up for it with colorful decorations.


    Amidst the civilian traffic, the obviously military convoy of four-by-fours carrying James and Chief Grey were dully noted by the passing pedestrians who waved by. Had he been fifteen years younger, James would¡¯ve asked for the cars¡¯ windows to be lowered to wave right back. Nowadays, he was fine with following most security protocols his bodyguards proposed. He was no longer a mere heir; he was the duke.


    ¡­


    Arriving at the government headquarters, the convoy was ushered into an underground parking lot where the passengers disembarked.


    ¡°I will be heading to my office. It was a pleasure to speak with Your Grace.¡± Alfonso bid his goodbyes, bowing lightly before making for an elevator alongside his bodyguard.


    James and four members of his detail also entered an elevator, though this time one of his bodyguards took out a complex key which he inserted into a hole on the button pannel. The elevator went straight to the top floor without stopping for other passengers.


    The security protocols were to be followed to perfection, even in the extremely safe environment of Cradleton. His bodyguards, members of the elite 101st Marine Regiment, were focused solely on his safety. Had he been willing to follow every single one of their more outlandish suggestions, he would¡¯ve been leading his dynasty from the safety of his flagship until the day he died.


    A mellow ¡®ting¡¯ announced the elevators arrival. The doors opened to reveal a largely plain hall with a number of wooden doors. At the end, a secretary focused on her small work console guarded the farthest door.


    As James and his bodyguards approached, the secretary looked up. Her eyes widened and she nearly jumped up.


    ¡°W-Welcome, Your Grace.¡± She stuttered, bowing lowly.


    ¡°Good morning, miss.¡± James smiled, gesturing to the door behind her. ¡°I believe Governor Moore is waiting for me.¡±


    ¡°Your Grace w-would be correct.¡± The secretary acknowledged, pressing a button on her desk. ¡°His Grace has arrived, Governor.¡± She said through the intercom.


    <Ah, of course. Please open my office¡¯s door for him, Joanna.> A deep male voice replied.


    The secretary quickly moved to the door, opening it and bowing down as James and his people passed. Two of his guards split off to guard the entrance, while another two followed him into the room.


    Inside, James was welcomed by two men whom he hadn¡¯t met in months.


    ¡°Cain, Constantine, it¡¯s good to see you two.¡± He smiled as the pair bowed lightly with eager smiles.


    ¡°It pleases me to hear Your Grace is in good health and spirits.¡± Cain Moore, the Governor of Domusec, said.


    ¡°This one is most happy to see you, Your Grace.¡± Jean-Constantine Saint-Germaine, the President of the dynasty¡¯s one and only agricultural corporation, said.


    The three of them sat down in synth-leather chairs around a short-legged table. Cain¡¯s secretary came in shortly thereafter with a kettle, three glasses and some golden viscous liquid in a jar.


    ¡°Is that¡­honey?¡± James noted, incredulously.


    ¡°Quite.¡± Constantine nodded, grinning.


    ¡°I¡­how? I am certain we brought no honey over during the exodus.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d be correct. This honey was not brought over from the Old World. I assume Your Grace are aware the office of terraforming has introduced bees to Domusec?¡±


    James stared at the man, realization striking him like a thunderbolt. ¡°You¡­cultivated this? On Domusec?¡± The mere idea brought a smile to his lips.


    ¡°The first bee colonies had to be placed under strict observation, but that does not mean they did not make honey. The team Chief Grey assigned was¡­inexperienced with running an apiary, but the Saint-Germaine Group has the expertise to run such an operation.¡±


    ¡°This is¡­excellent. Yes, truly excellent.¡± James nodded as he tested the honey¡¯s taste.


    ¡°This particular batch was made with lavender and chamomile flowers, which have proved capable of not only surviving but thriving in the cold climate.¡±


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    ¡°So¡­we have colonized Domusec. Really colonized it.¡±


    Cain chuckled at James¡¯ words. ¡°Your Grace, the farm-to-own doctrine is hardly the only metric. Twenty-four thousand akritan citizens call Cradleton their home, and we have as many as five thousand polarii workers and their dependents asking for permanent residence permits.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡± James smiled, focused on the honey. ¡°But there is a certain¡­appeal to the imperial colonization doctrine.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Yet that is in the past now. Please, Cain, tell me more about recent developments.¡±


    The governor nodded in understanding; two years ago merely considering a life outside the Imperium would¡¯ve been impossible. Now¡­they were living in it.


    ¡°Of course. As I previously mentioned, Cradleton now has a population of roughly thirty thousand, though this number is growing each week as we decant more colonists. The relative freedom to grow our population when we need to has allowed us to make a good city plan. We¡¯ve been aided by Nikolai Johnson, a polarii civil engineer.¡±


    Pausing for a moment, Cain grabbed a roll of thick paper from his desk and laid it out on the coffee table. It showed the plans of the entire city, according to the latest reports from the construction and planning teams.


    ¡°The city¡¯s metropolitan area, which includes apartment complexes, office buildings and shops is roughly thirty-eight square kilometers in size. Factories, warehouses, storage areas and other industrial use spaces take up twenty-five more. Initially this was set up surrounding the city, but a month ago we begun construction on a dedicated industrial park roughly ten kilometers from the city proper.¡±


    As he spoke, his fingers traced a number of lines passing along main streets and high-capacity roads.


    ¡°We currently operate some twenty-five transit buses, from a standard pre-exodus design adapted for hydrocarbon use. In lieu of automated systems, we¡¯ve just trained and hired roughly sixty people who drive them in shifts. Many of the polarii construction workers have brought over families; by giving them work we eliminate unemployment, prevent the crime that would follow and decrease the cost of bus maintenance.¡±


    ¡°What about the spaceport? I saw quite a bit of infrastructure under construction.¡± James asked.


    ¡°Quite.¡± Cain smiled. ¡°For now, we run both passenger and freight flights in the same tarmac, but we plan to separate the two as our need for capacity and efficiency grows. Interplanetary flights between Domusec and Polaris are managed by a polarii state corporation; those new shuttles they bought are being put to good use. Shipments of food, goods and raw materials are brought in via our own corporations¡¯ heavy lift birds.¡±


    ¡°I know. There¡¯s been a non-insignificant number of complaints about capacity overload.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s where the Saint-Germaine group comes in.¡± Cain motioned to the man standing next to him, who¡¯d been enjoying his honeyed chai while the pair discussed city planning. ¡°Constantine?¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes.¡± The man set down his cup, clearing his throat.


    ¡°As Your Grace put it, the need for food imports from orbit has put a significant strain on our transorbital transport. My firm is proposing to alleviate that by establishing farms on Domusec.¡±


    The executive¡¯s words were hardly surprising. Everybody knew their food stocks and limited aeroponics and hydroponics shipborne infrastructure couldn¡¯t support a growing population measured in the hundreds of thousands. Humanity might¡¯ve conquered the stars, but its most effective method of agriculture was still burying seeds in the soil like pre-industrial paleos.


    ¡°Elaborate.¡± James said.


    Constantine took out a graphite pencil from a pocket, circling several dozen square kilometers to the east of the metropolitan area, beyond the Splitter river.


    ¡°Current bioengineering and agricultural knowledge allows us to fulfill a person¡¯s needs for grains, vegetables and fruits for the entire year with point one to two acres of land.¡±


    ¡°And I suppose the variable is investment.¡± James surmised.


    Constantine nodded. ¡°Correct. A farm run using manual labor is only ten percent as efficient as a fully automated aeroponics facility of similar size, but is significantly cheaper to run and requires less knowledge to manage. Our current proposal is far less advanced compared to our best aeroponics facility, but the yield is still excellent.¡±


    Grabbing his tablet from a nearby briefcase, he opened it and showed a simple rendering of an example farm. James had seen it before, so there was little surprise.


    ¡°Grains and hardy legumes will be cultivated in open-air farms and cared for using semi-automatic farming vehicles and optimized blends of pesticides, additives and fertilizers. Thanks to heavy orbital presence, as well as a couple of long-haul solar drones in the atmosphere, we can model weather patterns down to thirty-minute increments as far as two weeks from the present. More vulnerable crops like soft-skinned vegetables and fruits will be housed in rather basic greenhouses with automatic sprinkler systems.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s the cost going to be?¡± James asked the most important question.


    ¡°As it stands now, feeding a person using our space-based aeroponics facilities for a year costs about twelve thousand marks. That¡¯s for a limited diet that relies on faux meat and heavy additives to create a tasteful meal. With the model I am presenting you today, we can reduce that to about three and a half thousand marks. That¡¯s about eighty percent cheaper.¡±


    It was a good idea, economically and logistically. But James wasn¡¯t merely satisfied with good.


    ¡°I¡¯m not looking to feed my citizens soy paste and corn, Constantine, and you know that. So why don¡¯t you tell me the full plan and the total cost, including the meat, dairy and animal products that we¡¯ve yet to talk about.¡±


    The executive grimaced, but nevertheless conceded.


    ¡°Raising cattle or pigs is highly inefficient the natural way, but synthetic growing methods are a mature and cheap option. Artificial cell growth facilities are on average a third more expensive to run compared to ranches with similar output, but because of their nature require significantly less space and do not impede on the supply of grains to the average citizen.¡±


    Artificial cell growth technology was highly advanced in the Imperium compared to the other major polities of the known galaxy, as habitable worlds were rarer.


    In an average ¡®facility¡¯ -because nobody liked to call it a factory- meat was grown in vats of nutrient solution under the careful observation of trained technicians. Different cuts and types took varying lengths of time and amounts of nutrient solution, with ground meat being the cheapest while ribs usually cost the most. Mass production facilities could churn out a literal tons of ground beef a day, but only a few hundred rib-eye steaks a week.


    ¡°Animal products can be created the natural way. Automated chicken coups and dairy farms require significantly less feedstock than a meat-producing ranch.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± James nodded. ¡°You will need to talk with my chief of staff about the specifics, but I approve of such a venture. Our goal is to ensure a good quality of life for everyone, and that means food on the table that keeps our citizens happy and healthy.¡±


    With a few parting words, James left the government headquarters feeling satisfied with his visit. Governor Cain Moore could be trusted to see to the day-to-day affairs of the city, and the Saint-Germaine Group knew that following both the wording and spirit of their agreement would only lead to bigger profits.


    ¡®In a year¡¯s time, we¡¯ll be able to export our surplus.¡¯


    James was a warlord at heart -after a decade of war, that was a certainty-, but he had no illusions about the power of the free market. Planets could be taken with force, but only full bellies and heavy wallets would keep the populace happy and loyal. Expansion necessitated economic strength, and James was very much pro-expansion.

 Interlude 2.1 - Bountiful Domusec

    Johny had been a farmer all his life.


    He¡¯d been born to farmers, living just outside of Goldspeak. Polaris might be a mining colony, but all the hungry miners needed somebody to feed them. His family had owned one of the many greenhouse complexes that fed the growing city.


    According to the handfull of agricultural science books he¡¯d read during his teenage years -and which he still read through on occasion-, the polarii soil could be characterized as ¡®suboptimal¡¯. To farm in the snowglobe of a planet, one needed a heated greenhouse and a soil processing facility.


    In short, farming was expensive.


    Every now and then, he would dream about moving to a more fertile land. He¡¯d heard about the Verdant League and its planets, which the ancients had sculpted with lost sciences to become as fertile as the mythical birthplace of humanity.


    Yet going there was impossible; selling his every belonging and using his savings might get him as far as the Republic¡¯s frontier worlds, yet he had a family to feed, clothe and send to school. Taking such risks was best left to the dreamy-eyed youth, whose spring-stepped ranks he¡¯d left many years ago.


    So for many cycles he¡¯d stopped dreaming, bent his head down and kept working hard.


    At times, it had been rough. Antifreeze pumps failed, turning moist leaves into icicles. Disease nipped at his harvest, killing three or four out of every ten plants. Snowstorms slammed against the greenhouse, the subsequent repairs draining his savings.


    Johny had long since accepted this would go on until he died, and worked hoping his children might escape his fate. Maybe they¡¯d grow smart enough to go to university, become doctors or engineers.


    Then the akritans came. At first, nothing really changed¡­but not for long.


    Every month another factory would awaken, repairs would get cheaper, and his savings would fatten up. Then a big refinery opened in the frostlands way up north, turning methane gas that had been trapped under frozen lakes into hydrocarbon fuel, lubricants and antifreeze.


    When his eldest son was lost on a hunting trip, Johny thought him gone. A search and rescue helicopter from the newly-created national guard found him mere hours before a storm shredded through the plain, and brought him home with minor injuries that healed quickly.


    Johny had never felt happier.


    Then a brutal snowstorm rolled through town, and while he and his family sheltered the greenhouse was torn apart, fibreglass, soil and everything. His life¡¯s work was gone, and the future looked bleak. He¡¯d amased fat savings, tens of thousands of dollars. Yet that was not enough to rebuild the greenhouse, not while also sending all three children to university and having enough to retire.


    The only way to help his children escape was work. Work, until they buried him under the moist soil. Another ten years of labor and worsening back pain.


    His second-eldest, Pauline, told him otherwise just a week after the disaster.


    ¡°It¡¯s all over town!¡± She said, practically beaming with joy, handing her prized tablet to his calloused hands.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    As he read through the advert, tears rolling down his cheeks. ¡°This¡­it can¡¯t be.¡± He mumbled. ¡°Daughter¡­is this true?¡±


    ¡°It is!¡± She said, hugging him. ¡°The duke¡¯s paying for moving, transport, and giving us a starting loan! Look, there¡¯s the interest!¡±


    Johny had expected five, maybe six percent. The duke appeared to be a reasonable ruler, much unlike the devil-like loan sharks that had given him absurd offers the very morning after his greenhouse was destroyed.


    Instead, near the very bottom of the resettlement offer, he saw it. The tablet dropped to the table, eliciting a surprised squeak from his daughter.


    [¡­to be repaid within the next five years, at an annual interest rate of 1%]


    ¡ª


    Johny had grown up used to cold. Every time he went out, he made sure to wear at least three layers. During the heart of winter, that went up to as many as five, including esothermic underwear and additional layers.


    So cruising through the vast green valley, feeling comfortably cool as while only wearing a shirt and jacket, was a deeply heartening experience. All he could see inside the enormous valley¡¯s borders was green; grass, trees, and farms.


    Not greenhouses, but open air farms spanning dozens if not hundreds of hectares.


    So vast was the valley, that he and his family had been thrown into a helicopter to cross the distance from the spaceport to their new home in Springfield, a village that had been incorporated just months ago. His wife and children sat in the seats around his won, looking through the windows, while their bags were strapped between the two rows of seats. On the other side of the passenger cabin, another polarii farmer family did much the same.


    Johny knew the parents, with whom he and his wife had met briefly at a wedding ceremony and school graduation party. He was glad they wouldn¡¯t have to adapt to this new reality without friends, despite the ideal farming conditions and promising future under the Duke¡¯s rule.


    ¡°Attention, dear passengers.¡± The co-pilot announced on the intercomm, his voice coming out clear over each person¡¯s headset. ¡°We will be arriving at the Springfield Regional Heliport in approximately two minutes. Thank you for flying with us on this fine morning.¡±


    ¡ª


    ¡°Mornin¡¯ Mike!¡± Johny greeted his neighbor and friend, walking out to his front porch.


    It had just dawned, and the house his family had moved into just over two months ago now shined in the morning sun.


    ¡°Mornin¡¯ to you too, Johny!¡± Mike, a fellow farmer and polarii, waved back.


    The two men walked up to one another, exchanging a firm handshake before walking side-by-side to the bus station. It was a bright, sunny spring day, and the planting season had just begun. They were joined by many of the other villagers on their way to the fields, eager smiles on their faces.


    Soon they reached the small station and boarded the waiting bus, greeting the driver as they entered and took their informal seats. Some read through the morning paper, while others chatted about the machines or the fields. Tea was exchanged for biscuits and kaf for fruitcakes, and before long they¡¯d all tasted most of what the neighborhood''s cooks had to offer.


    It was a comfortable commute, the bus growing smaller and smaller as each farmer stepped off at his respective farm. Johny got off nearly last along with Mike, their plots of land being side-by-side and only separated by a simple wooden fence, about as high as their shoulder.


    ¡°See you in the evening.¡±


    ¡°You bet.¡±


    ¡­


    Johny had yet to get used to running an open-air farm, but he was glad to have trained in virtual-reality. All the tools and vehicles he¡¯d bought with the government loan had come with hefty training manuals and video courses for both operating and maintaining them. The Saint-Germaine Group¡¯s products were expensive ¡ªespecially if bought outside the government loan program¡ª but they were high-quality through and through.


    Walking outside the small farmhouse-garage that stored his new tools of the trade ¡ªitself a pre-fabricated assembly shipped in by heavy cargo shuttle¡ª, he kneeled down into the moist soil and took a fistfull in his palm.


    Soft, black soil fell through his fingers, making him smile. He¡¯d heard of just how fertile the land was before arriving, but he could have scarcely imagined such pristine soil, ripe for sowing. Back in Polaris, he¡¯d have to mix fertilizer and compost into harvested soil and layer it in his greenhouse to get even half as good of a result. Here¡­it was just waiting to be used.


    ¡°Welp, s¡¯pose I ought to get to it.¡± He muttered, walking into the barn.


    Domusec¡¯s bounty wasn¡¯t going to be sown by itself.

 Chapter 13 - Black and White

    January 22nd, 394


    Commodore Caleb Gaines sat in his chair on the bridge, looking through the latest report from his engineering department. Even among ships of her class, the ANS Circe was a tech-heavy warship¡­and that translated in metric tons of paperwork to go through.


    ¡®Thirteen more days to go¡­¡¯ The young commodore thought to himself.


    As much as he took pride in his rank, Caleb often missed the simplicity of life as a simple console operator. He¡¯d served in the navy for ten years, and most of that had been spent in front of an electronic warfare console. That was probably the reason why he¡¯d been selected to command the lead ship of the Witch-class cruisers¡­but nothing could¡¯ve prepared him for the stacks of paperwork he had to read through each and every day.


    Placed in a lineup with all the other classes of warship ever commissioned by the dynasty, the Circe was a middling warship. Nine hundred meters long and home to a thousand ratings and officers, it would¡¯ve been called a heavy cruiser had its armament not been bumped down a notch in favor of an extremely sophisticated electronic warfare suite.


    Placed in the midst of a squadron or battle-group, such a warship served as an amazing force multiplier whose presence could mean life or death for friend and foe alike. Unfortunately, the increased logistical burden of its tech-heavy profile had been the cause of many a headache for both Caleb and the admiralty back on Bridgehead Station.


    ¡®I could really use some¡­¡¯


    ¡°Chai, sir?¡± A familiar voice came from his right.


    Caleb shook his head lighty and turned to look up at, coming face-to-face with a kitchen steward carrying a chai set. ¡®Tea Boys¡¯, as the kitchen staff that carried chai to those who needed it were called, were welcomed in almost every part of the ship. That was a rare luxury that few people were afforded; a rating couldn¡¯t simply walk into the bridge and an officer would rather walk into space without a vacsuit than visit marine country.


    ¡°Yes please. And a teaspoon of honey.¡±


    ¡°Right away sir.¡± The tea boy replied, skillfully pouring his commodore a cup of hot chai and adding a teaspoon of domish honey.


    ¡°Here you go, sir.¡± He handed Caleb the cup on a small plate, along with a pair of small biscuits. ¡°The galley just whipped these up.


    ¡°Thank you very much, son.¡± Caleb thanked and dismissed the boy, eager to savor the flavor of honeyed chai.


    After many months of rather basic and bland cooking, the akritan navy was once again flush with consumables. The farms of Domusec were increasing in size and variety every week. Cradle Valley honey, especially, had become a hotly-discussed good that everybody who was somebody wanted to get their hands on.


    Some wanted it for the clout, but the overwhelming majority had simply missed the taste. Honey was one of those goods too messy, bulky and low-profit to ship in bulk, and Polaris didn¡¯t have the environment to raise bees or grow flowers.


    Minutes passed as the entire bridge was served their hourly tea ration -one of the few traditions that hadn¡¯t changed a bit since they were introduced in the navy-. Not just because it was tradition, but because it was effective. Nothing bonded crews better than sharing in food and drink, and everybody drank chai. If you didn¡¯t before joining, you certainly would get the habit after a few months in a tin can with few sources of entertainment and not a drop of alcohol.


    And the caffeine didn¡¯t go to waste. Life aboard a warship demanded you to be awake and alert at any time you were needed, and stars knew sleep proved hard to come by during wartime. Thankfully they were now at peace, but that didn¡¯t diminish the important of alertness.


    ¡®All we¡¯re doing is watching a damn patch in space¡­¡¯ Caleb complained, looking at his sensor screen as he drained the last of his chai.


    The spinward jump point of the Pollux system was just that; a three-dimensional patch in space where ships could, and did, spontaneously materialize. To an outside observer¡ª


    ¡°Commodore, you need to see this!¡± His sensors watch-stander called out, worry evident in the tone of her voice. ¡°I¡¯ve got multiple bogeys on the gravidar, coming right out of the jump point!¡±


    ¡®Shit. What now?¡¯ Caleb cursed, putting down his tea cup. ¡°Elaborate, lieutenant.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got five signatures, traveling at oh-zero-five cee. Acceleration profile is weak; hovering at thirty four gravities. Lidar return¡­I think it¡¯s civilians, sir, but I¡¯m detected damage. One of the ships can¡¯t keep up and two are leaking atmosphere.¡±


    ¡°Communications, get a hail out to them now on radio and whisker-laser. I want to know where they are from, why they are here and who the hell attacked them.¡±


    The communications watch-stander replied immediately. ¡°Sir, their transponders are still online. Reading as mining barges from the Kingdom of Leonis- wait one.¡± The lieutenant turned around to face Caleb. ¡°Sir, I¡¯m receiving a video communication. Header says they are refugees. Civil war refugees.¡±


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    +++


    Before


    ¡°The Lucky Lamp was hit!¡± Somebody shouted amidst the crowded bridge of the mining barge, and Luka cursed under his breath.


    Try as the group might, the royal guard¡¯s warships were gaining on them¡­fast. Mining ships were built to move slowly and steadily, not swiftly. The gap between the group of rag-tag escapists and their pursuers was rapidly closing; the only reason the frigates hadn¡¯t fired missiles at them was to not waste ammo.


    Instead, they were using their railguns to pepper the vulnerable haulers.


    ¡°How long until we¡¯re at the jump point?!¡± Luka demanded.


    ¡°Fifteen seconds!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve launched missiles!¡± The sensorman shouted in panic, his words spreading like wildfire. ¡°Impact in ten seconds!¡±


    They were doomed. Months of preparations, bribes and hiding, and now they were going to be turned into so much stardust and forgotten. Unless¡­


    ¡°Overload the propulsion systems! The gravitic plating, the inertial dampeners, the reactor, all of it! We can still make it!¡± Luka shouted, hoping that somewhere deep inside he still believed it. The panic made it so hard for him to think, to feel, anything more than survival in the immediate future.


    Disagreements, arguments and shouts of horror should¡¯ve followed his orders. The ore haulers were built with a surge-capable propulsion system, but for all the shiny stuff the kingdom kept building it hardly -if ever- actually maintained that which it already had.


    The royal guard, as well as some of the navy¡¯s elite units, were the exception. Everything else, from apartment buildings and factories to space stations and ore haulers -especially the ore haulers- hadn¡¯t seen a proper repair and refurbishment cycle since the day they left the shipyard.


    Alas, is crew was caught up in the same do-or-die adrenaline rush he was under.


    ¡°Overloading now!¡± The woman in charge of propulsion shouted, and Luka felt his teeth grind against each other as the ship¡¯s inertial dampening strained against the effort.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to make it!¡± The same man who¡¯d called out the missile launched shouted in shock and awe, even as he gasped for breath.


    ¡°The Coal Prince is hit!¡± Somebody shouted, and cries of anguish washed over the crowd as the barge disintegrated. Yet Luka knew it had not been hit; its inertial dampeners had simply failed. In less than a nanosecond, eight hundred souls had been snuffed out of existence. He couldn¡¯t, wouldn¡¯t point it out; this was their only chance at survival.


    ¡°Helmsman, take us into hyperspace!¡± He shouted, and suddenly his mouth tasted gray and he could smell laughter.


    For a moment, he was at peace. And then reality crashed back into existence.


    ¡°Jump successful!¡± The helmsman shouted.


    Not everybody took the abrupt change of scenery as good as the man; many collapsed into coughing fits or puked the insides of their stomachs. The visceral reaction sparked a chain reaction; the air turned putrid, the sight sickening. Nevertheless, Luka didn¡¯t stop. This was their chance at survival, if only he could grab it with both hands.


    He¡¯d heard it from the rumor mill, that¡¯s why they¡¯d jumped this way instead of attempting the hellish dash to hegemony space some seven systems away. Some merchantmen had passed through Leonis without stopping, having traded away their wares and refueled in a bustling colony in the Praxis system. A colony with warships, supposedly. It was a gamble, but maybe¡­just maybe, those warships would protect them. Because stars knew nobody else would in this slice of the galaxy.


    ¡°There they are¡­¡± He mumbled in disbelief, finding what he was searching for. Warships, patrolling near the jump point. One big and two small ones, though even those were bigger than the frigates that were chasing him. Would that be enough? He had no idea; he had spent his entire adult life in the mines with little in terms of education or news beyond what few rumors were recycled throughout the mining station he¡¯d been born on.


    2


    ¡°You, communications!¡± he shouted to the woman manning the console, who turned around to face him. ¡°I¡¯m going to send you a message, and I need you to send it at those warships. They will help us.¡± The last part was meant more for him than her; he was grappling with straws.


    The woman puked out her guts, but nodded to the affirmative nonetheless. Knowing that was all he was going to get, Luka turned to the camera of his own console and started talking.


    ¡°To all who may hear this message: we need your help. We are refuges, seeking-¡°


    +++


    Now


    ¡°-to escape slavery. T-Their warships are chasing us, they¡¯ll kill us all! Please, you have to help us, there are kids on board!¡±


    Hearing the man¡¯s plea, Caleb felt his blood boil. Looking around the room, he couldn¡¯t help but notice the rest of the bridge crew had stony expressions.


    ¡°Your orders, Commodore?¡± His communications officer asked.


    Many times in his life, Caleb had had to think deep before issuing orders. A commodore had to make tough choices if he wanted to see his mission through, and the war against the Vogdi had tested akritan morals and morale to the absolute limit.


    This was not one of those times.


    Careful not so smash his display, he pressed a buttn and recorded a video reply.


    ¡°Refugee ships, this is the akritan navy warship Circe. Maintain maximum viable acceleration and head for the fifth planet farthest from this star; our people will be waiting for you with medical aid and hot meals. The Circe and her subordinate warships will cover your retreat.¡±


    ¡°Message sent, Commodore.¡± The communications officer replied.


    ¡°Good, I¡¯ve got another one for the entire squadron. Get on the 1MC and call general quarters.¡± Caleb replied, feeling a fire grow in his heart.


    With a short acknowledgment, the lieutenant pressed a few keys on his console. A shrill whistle tone sounded throughout the ship.


    <General Quarters. General Quarters. All hands, man your battle stations. This is not a drill; I repeat, this is not a drill.>


    With a gesture from the officer, Caleb spoke into his console¡¯s microphone.


    ¡°All hands, this is Commodore Gaines. A group of refugees have been hunted into the system by unknown combatants intent on killing them. Our task is to defend the refugees by all means necessary. Give. No. Mercy.¡±


    Akritan discipline held back what cheering might¡¯ve come from the rest of the crew on the bridge, but Caleb could see the fire in their eyes as they looked at him. At least half the men in this ship were first or second generation refugees chased into the arms of the dynasty by Vogdi savagery. Though they did not know who these refugees were or where they came from, there was an immediate sense of kinship with the unfortunate men and women trying to escape from their deaths.


    ¡°Tracking four bogeys exiting hyperspace at spinward jump point.¡± The sensor officer reported, his tone sharp.


    ¡®There they are.¡¯ Caleb though. ¡°Tag all bogeys as bandits. Let¡¯s show these scum the business end of akritan guns.¡±

 Chapter 14 - Electronic warfare boogaloo

    ¡°Captain, they¡¯ve jumped.¡± The sensor watch-stander reported.


    ¡°Then chase after them!¡± Captain Cosco ordered, slamming his fist against the synth-leather armrest.


    First the damned traitors had managed to escape the asteroid belts. Now, they¡¯d managed to go into hyperspace seconds before his missiles had reached them. Missiles that he would¡¯ve launched minutes ago¡­had restocking not been nearly impossible.


    With the heavyweights exchanging hundreds of long-range missiles each day, reloads had become a rare resource provided only to those that proved their worth. And a random flotilla maintaining order in the penal colonies was damn near the very bottom of the list.


    But not for long.


    ¡°All ship hyperdrives synched. Your orders, sir?¡± The navigation watch-stander asked.


    ¡°Engage hyperdrives, guns at the ready.¡± Cosco ordered settling into his seat with a huff.


    Their frigates, powerful as they were for their class, had limited superluminal mobility. They only had enough antimatter fuel to go to Praxis and return¡­which meant this was his last chance to catch the fleeing saboteurs.


    ¡°Engaging.¡±


    For a fleeting moment, his molars tasted like the spring air of his hometown on Solomon¡­and then he returned to the present. The experience was wonderful -he¡¯d heard of super-rich idiots jumping back and forth to experience it all the time- but he had a job to do.


    ¡°Sensors, where are the traitors?¡± He asked.


    ¡°Gravidar¡¯s cycling¡­found them.¡± The young lieutenant said from his console station. ¡°They are heading deeper into the system¡­wait. Status change, we¡¯ve got unknown bogeys. Warships, sir!¡±


    Cosco¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Warships, you say?! Elaborate.¡±


    ¡°My sensors are seeing three unknown ships approximately three light seconds away and burning towards us. Lidar puts two bogeys at approximately four hundred meters long and the third at nearly a kilometer, but the gravidar¡¯s going haywire. Densities are too high to be civilian, but I can¡¯t tell anything else.¡±


    The young officer¡¯s words were worrying. If these were militarized freighters piloted by pirates, then he needn¡¯t worry. But if these were proper warships¡­well, where the hell did they come from?


    ¡°Reboot main sensors and switch to auxiliaries.¡± Cosco ordered, training overriding his panic. ¡°Communications, send a message to those unknown warships.¡±


    Clearing his throat, he spoke. ¡°Unknown vessels, this is Captain Matteo Cosco of the Leonian Royal Guard. We are pursuing a group of traitors, terrorists and saboteurs for crimes against king and kingdom. Do not interfere.¡±


    ¡°Message sent, captain.¡± The communications watch-stander confirmed.


    ¡°Good. Send a message to the other frigates. All ships are to continue pursuing the mining barges but remain alert in case the unknown warships attempt to attack us.¡±


    On their current course and heading, his task force would catch up to the barges with plenty of time to destroy them with railgun fire. Cosco thanked his lucky stars they wouldn¡¯t have to waste any more missiles; his ships¡¯ magazines were looking dangerously empty.


    Just as he was about to relax in his chair, the lieutenant manning the communications console spoke.


    ¡°Sir, I¡¯ve got a response from the, uh, the warships. The header says it¡¯s from the ¡®Akritan Navy¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Bah, probably a bunch of pirates trying to look prim and proper.¡± Cosco chuckled. ¡°Forward the message to my console, I¡¯ll take a look.¡±


    ¡°Right away, sir.¡±


    Cosco opened the video file, seeing an unknown coat of arms. Three heads similar to those of a wolf -a well-known animal of ancient Terran descent- hovering above a planet. There was some kind of writing around the design, similar to Domain Standard yet¡­different.


    Then the coat of arms vanished, and in its place appeared a well-kempt man in a foreign uniform. His expression was stone cold.


    ¡°This is Commodore Gaines of the Akritan Navy. Unknown warships, you are intruding on dynasty space and are suspected of war crimes. Surrender immediately or you will be destroyed. This is your first and final warning.¡±


    The message closed on its own, leaving Cosco speechless.


    ¡°¡­war crimes?¡± He mumbled, frowning. ¡°So the rats spoke to them. Gunnery officer, light those warships up with our fire control radars. Let them run like the fringe pests they are.¡±


    ¡°Aye, sir!¡± The lieutenant commander responded enthusiastically.


    Ten seconds later, the akritan ships responded to Cosco¡¯s warning.


    <For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged>


    The simple response made the captain¡¯s hairs stand up. Yet he didn¡¯t have time to wonder why.


    ¡°Ancestors!¡± The sensors officer shouted. ¡°Battleship! That thing¡¯s a fucking battleship!¡±


    Cosco¡¯s eyes bolted to his sensor screen, only to make that same realization. It appeared that the unknown warships had been jamming their gravidar arrays¡­until now.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got one bandit at one-six-zero kilotons, two bandits at four-five kilotons, Captain! They¡¯ve changed their course, burning hard towards us!¡±


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    A battleship -if barely- and two very heavy destroyers. If those readings were true, they were fucked. They would have to retreat¡­but where? If they came back now, with their magazines low, fuel expended and low on supplies the admiralty would send them on some ¡®redemption mission¡¯ in close-quarters battle.


    ¡°Impossible.¡± He responded, trying to sound confident. ¡°These rats are spoofing our gravidar returns. Comms, tell the task force to switch targets to these new foes and prepare for-¡±


    ¡°Status change, missile launch!¡± Sensors reported. ¡°I¡¯m seeing twelve¡­thirty¡­fifty¡­one-fifty, I repeat, I¡¯m seeing one-five-zero missile launches from enemy warships! Accelerating at four-five-zero gravities, impact in five minutes!¡±


    ¡°Brightest stars¡­¡± Somebody murmured the Henshii prayer, and yet Cosco was far too shocked to punish the man.


    ¡°Launch counter-missiles!¡± He ordered. ¡°All ships are to launch counter-missiles. Our point-defense net will take out the stragglers. Come on, people, look. They¡¯ve probably launched their entire magazines, and I bet those missiles are dumber than a rebel pipe-rocket.¡±


    ¡°Gunnery officer, hold our own missiles for close-range fire. Their own birds won¡¯t have time to get us.¡±


    He put his everything into making that sound confident enough. A little bit to boost the crew¡¯s morale, and a little bit to raise his own. They barely had a one-twenty counter-missiles between the four frigates, and they were last-generation birds built during the Freedom War. The truth was, their on-board guidance systems were absolutely terrible at acquiring and holding a target farther away than a single light-second.


    ¡°Counter-missiles launching.¡± His gunnery office reported. ¡°Impact in two minutes, twelve seconds. Laser point-defenses are opening fire.¡±


    He grinned. ¡®Maybe we will actually see this through.¡¯


    ¡°Uh¡­sir?¡± The damned sensor watch-stander spoke. ¡°The missiles are¡­multiplying.¡±


    ¡°¡­what?¡± A gobsmacked Cosco asked. ¡°Say that again, lieutenant.¡±


    ¡°The missiles are multiplying.¡± The lieutenant said, his face devoid of color. ¡°I¡¯m reading nine hundred enemy birds.¡±


    The bridge fell silent at his words, and for good reason.


    ¡®What the fuck kind of electronic warfare platform do they have that can quintuple their birds?!¡¯ Cosco thought, straining not to shout in confusion. ¡°Boost sensor power, we can still-¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re on maximum power settings, sir. The radar¡¯s overheating; it¡¯s going to shut down in a few hours.¡±


    ¡°Just fucking do something, lieutenant!¡±


    +++


    ¡°How are our birds doing, lieutenant commander?¡± Commodore Lukas Gaines asked his gunnery officer.


    ¡°Attrition so far is at three percent, sir. I¡¯ve never seen something like this in my entire life.¡± The veteran reported with a look of pure amazement. ¡°It¡¯s like they are running their ECCM shop out of a toaster.¡±


    ¡°I think that¡¯s a very close approximation, Captain.¡± His electronic-warfare officer cut in from her console. ¡°I¡¯ve seen better responses from pirates, back when we sent raiding parties into the Fringe to give ¡®em a wedgie. They are probably seeing enough missiles on their screens to break up a star fort.¡±


    Lukas didn¡¯t need the man to tell him so; he¡¯d been sitting in the lieutenant¡¯s chair for more than a decade before the admiralty decided he was of more use sitting in the fancy chair. And as captain of this ship, it was his job to know exactly how powerful her systems were. Which was very, compared to the akritan standard. Compared to these poor fucks who probably still encrypted their communications in-


    ¡®Wait. No¡­They can¡¯t be that stupid¡­right?¡¯ He thought, feeling the outline of an idea form in his head.


    ¡°Comms, electronic warfare.¡± He called out the two lieutenants, who turned to face him expectantly. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose these backwards morons have comms codes we can actually crack, right?¡±


    The officers¡¯ eyes widened at his suggestion, wolfish grins forming on their lips.


    +++


    ¡°Captain, I¡¯m receiving a message from the¡­the akritan warships.¡± The comms officer reported.


    ¡°Well? Have they asked for mercy yet?¡± Cosco asked, focused on his displays.


    ¡®One minute until missile intercept.¡¯


    His task force¡¯s laser defenses were firing with abandon, but it was an exercise in futility. Four out of every five missiles they hit was ¡®invincible¡¯, sensor ghosts generated by the enemy that leonian radar systems found impossible to parse through. Their gravidar was spitting out nonsense half the time, and the other half the sheer volume of jamming caused the operating system to enter a reboot cycle until somebody manually cycled the system.


    They¡¯d only managed to take out eight or ten missiles, and the lasers¡¯ power banks were straining against the load. They could store immense amounts of power, but the rate at which they filled and emptied was putting a strain on them. Even their fusion reactors were showing signs of strain.


    ¡°Sir¡­the message is written in our encryption.¡±


    ''...what?''


    ¡°It appears they have broken our radio encryption, sir.¡± The lieutenant explained, his voice rendered calm not by training but by the sheer impossibility of their situation.


    ¡°How¡­how the fuck did they do that?¡± Cosco spat out.


    Sure, he had no illusions about the kingdom¡¯s cryptography shops. They weren¡¯t the best in the sector. Information was the trade of the Concordiat. But nobody he knew of had the ability to crack naval comms encryption in minutes. At least, not without pre-collapse technology¡­


    ¡°Send me the message. Gunnery officer, alert me at thirty seconds to intercept.¡±


    ¡°Aye sir.¡± The lieutenant commander responded distractedly, focused on guiding his subordinates as they optimized the anti-missiles flight profile.


    As Cosco opened the message, the ship¡¯s lights flickered. The contents were just two sentences long.


    <Nice ship. It¡¯d be a shame if something happened to it¡­>


    ¡°What in the hells is that supposed to-¡±


    A shrill tone sounded from the ship¡¯s announcement system.


    <Alert. Main power unit emergency shutdown engaged. Switching to auxiliary power unit.>


    The bright white lights shifted into crimson red emergency mode.


    ¡°Active sensors are down!¡± The sensors watch-stander shouted in panic.


    ¡°Sir!¡± The gunnery officer¡¯s voice boomed. ¡°Our fire control radars are all shutting down. Our missiles have gone to self-guidance mode.¡±


    Despite the panic on the bridge, Cosco remained outwardly calm as he looked at the text message on his screen.


    ¡®Of all the ways to go¡­a fucking trojan?¡¯


    +++


    ¡°It worked?!¡± Captain Lukas exclaimed, looking at his sensors screen.


    The trojan attack had worked. All four frigates¡¯ propulsion systems had gone dark, as had their active and fire control sensors. This was the kind of exercise ensigns got laughed at for losing, and the enemy had ate it up hook, line and sinker.


    ¡°Sensors, am I looking at this right? All of them?!¡±


    ¡°Yes sir, we¡­wait one. Splash¡­splash two bandits.¡± The sensors officer reported, his previously excited town subdued.


    Lukas looked at his screen again, finding the lieutenant¡¯s observation to have been correct. Two of the disabled frigates had detonated, leaving behind an expanding ball of gas and micrometer-sized debris.


    ¡°I suspect their computers got hit so hard by our trojan they just¡­crashed.¡± The electronic warfare officer commented. ¡°It¡¯s theoretically impossible with the tech employed by imperial warships and even Fringe pirates¡­¡±


    ¡°But this is not the Fringe, nor are we fighting the Vogdi.¡± Lukas said. "Guns, divert our missiles; no use killing disarmed men.''


    This was one of the worst slaughters he¡¯d seen in years, and he¡¯d been on the winning side. Not a single casualty, save for a hundred mid-range anti-ship missiles and a few tons of reaction mass spent. Considering the potential losses, even against such a weak enemy force, this was phenomenally good.


    Yet in the face of so much death with a few megabytes of code, the smile that had been forming on his lips had vanished. In its place stood the cold logic and keen thinking of an officer raised by the Domus Pupili.


    ¡°Comms, tell the refugees we¡¯ve neutralized their pursuers but that we still request they go to Domusec orbit for care and repairs. And get me the major; we¡¯ve got two tin cans full of intelligence and I need his marines to open them up.¡±

 Interlude 2.2 - War Criminal

    ¡°I hereby call this court to order.¡± Judge Hassler said, striking his gavel against the wooden block.


    The mumbling inside the courtroom came to a stop, curious attendees turning their attention towards the center of the room.


    ¡°The prosecution may begin.¡±


    A formally dressed man stood up from his chair in front of the judges¡¯ panel, staring daggers at Captain Cosco and his seniormost subordinates before turning to the judges.


    ¡°Your Honor, the Ministry of Law and Justice accuses Captain L. Cosco, Commander J. Ferdinand and their subordinates of war crimes, under Article 7 of the Akritan Legal Code. Specifically, we accuse the defense of murdering non-combatants, attacking non-combatants with the intent to kill, assisting in the use of slave labor¡­¡±


    Cosco remained expressionless throughout the entire multi-minute accusation. He knew there was no use to anything he might do. He could curse these morons, promise to rain hellfire on their children. Yet that would only gain him worse standing, and maybe a cruel death instead of a swift one.


    This was a sham trial, after all. His execution was but a certainty; the judges looked ready to shoot him. Especially the presiding one, Hassler what¡¯s-his-name. He looked like a military judge, wearing a uniform with badges and nametags instead of the more formal, courtlike wear that civilian judges donned.


    ¡°Does the defense have anything to say in reply?¡±


    ¡°N-No, your honor.¡± Their defender, a woman who looked downright embarrased to be representing them in court, replied. ¡°Please proceed.¡±


    ¡°Very well. May the prosecution¡¯s first witness come to the stand.¡±


    Cosco saw the man stand up from his seat and move to the stand next to the judges, while the prosecutor approached to ask him. He was leonian, no doubt about it. A refugee, definetely. By the time the prosecutor started asking and the witness began answering, his thoughts drifted off once more.


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    ¡®What even is the point of this?¡¯


    He could bite his tongue, try to kill himself. Maybe these ¡®akritans¡¯ would try to resuscitate him, king knew it could be done with the right equipment and expertise. But maybe they wouldn¡¯t get to him in time, and he could choke to death. One final act, of his own volition.


    But as he twisted his tongue in place and moved his jaws about to bite, he felt a wave of naussea.


    ¡®I can¡¯t do it¡­I want to live, damnit!


    Tears dripped from his eyes, down his cheeks and to the metal floor. He had a career, a future! The Admiralty had promised him a promotion to battleship command if he ran Wolf 163 smoothly for the next two cycles, maybe even a place for him amidst the ranks of Highborn.


    ¡°It¡¯s not fair! They are the criminals! Shoot them, not me, damn it all!¡±


    Adrenaline pumped through his veins, and he smashed his head against the armaglass cell window. He wanted, he had to escape, to-


    ¡°Tase him!¡± He heard somebody say, the voices getting fainter. The glass had taken a crimson hue.


    ¡°You motherfu¡ª¡±


    A tousand volts of electricity ran through his entire body, and the dishonorable captain dropped to the floor like a sack of rocks.


    ¡ª


    Judgement!


    At seven o¡¯clock this evening, Goldspeak Standard Time, the war criminal Captain Cosco and his deputies were executed by firing squad. They where previously flown to Domusec by military shuttle and served a final meal of bread and water, before being dragged in front of akritans marines and officers of the Polarii Gendarmerie .


    The five men and women were declared guilty of a multitude of war crimes and crimes against humanity by a court of three judges, one of which was polarii.


    Judge Mycroft Lindberg is the seniormost judge of the Polari Judicial System, having graduated from the Goldspeak State University thirty five years ago. He has served as a judge in the lower and higher courts for over three decades, and received several accolades.


    It is unknown which members of the Gendarmerie participated in the firing squad, and their identities have been declared top secret information by Governor Polk. Speaking to the Tribune during a special press release, the Governor said the following:


    ¡°On this day, justice was served against the victims of these barbarians.¡±


    Upon further prompting regarding the status of the refugees, the Governor promised that her cabinet was examining all options for resettlement, as ¡°¡­sending these people back would be a death sentence¡±.


    ¡ªAurora Tribune

 Chapter 15 - They trust you

    After more than a year away from the horrors of the Vogdi¡¯s invasion, James had managed to get the barest taste of the peace his father had enjoyed during the early years of his rule. Unfortunately, the universe had a sick sense of humor, and humanity was its most common punchline.


    Its latest joke came in two parts. Five ramshackle mining barges full of refugees fleeing from what his intelligence people characterized as a ¡®system-sized penal labor camp¡¯, and two disarmed frigates crewed by war criminals.


    The latter had arrived in Domusec orbit a day ago, where medical personnel and metric tons of supplies had been ready to greet them. The latest census put them at roughly two thousand souls. Eighty-five percent were bellow the age of thirty-five t-years, and about a third were bellow the age of thirteen.


    With life support systems on the ships failing, many had been moved to complete but vacant sections of Bridgehead Station. The refugees were skeptical and distrusting, but James could hardly blame them.


    The picture his people gleaned from testimonies and interviews was sickening. These miners and their families had been raised in deep-space mining stations or sent there for committing some crime -such as speaking out against the king, or not showing up for the military draft-. They worked long hours and were paid in scrip that could only be used for buying basic goods from commissary shops -such as soap-, or purchasing overpriced black market goods.


    Sentences lasted twenty or thirty years, with the local law system allowing authorities to extend sentences ad infinitum for crimes as petty as speaking out against a law enforcement officer or defacing a public space.


    Slave labor, pretty much. And, according to the interrogation of the murderous sons of bitches they¡¯d caught red handed¡­they were making the weapons used in a civil war. Or, at least, mining the minerals with which were turned into weapons.


    The frigates that had been pursuing the refugees belonged to the ¡®Leonian Royal Guard¡¯. Though they¡¯d been disabled, it had taken three days for Patrol Squadron Two¡¯s organic marine units to capture the vessels.


    Casualties had been light, since the enviroment had been¡­calm. Unlike many other boarding operations, where units had to retrieve targets or cripple infrastructure in very little time, they know had all the time in the world to crack the frigates with safety in mind -for both parties-.


    So instead of breaching through an airlock or bulkhead with breaching charges and rushing for the engineering room and bridge while killing everybody who resisted, the marines had taken to methodically dissembling the ship bit-by-bit. They¡¯d managed to drill holes in the hull using special drill heads that deposited sealing formula behind them.


    They¡¯d expanded that gap until it was big enough to send combat robots and tear gas, taking the ships meter-by-meter. It helped that the ships themselves were running on auxiliary power and limited food supplies, and the marines¡¯ technical specialists had managed to hack the power system to turn the lights off and on at random intervals while blasting loud noises. Sailors were trained for a lot of things, but psychological torture inside their own territory was not one of them.


    The war criminals folded like wet paper, and the marines had suffered less than a tenth of their normal casualties. Each death was terrible, but it was better to lose seven brave marines than seventy. Injuries had been even more limited; the Circe¡¯s surgical chief had said that he hadn¡¯t seen a less bloody boarding action in his entire length of service.


    In the aftermath, the frigates had been put under garrison and the crew locked in their rooms.  Officers from Naval Intelligence, which had been formalized just four months prior under the command of Lieutenant Commander Stefan Hall, had been dispatched on a pinnace to interrogate the crew one by one.


    The process was ongoing, as each intelligence officer could only ¡®interview¡¯ ten or twelve lionsguard every day. Yet they¡¯d already gotten several high-ranking members of the crew to crack, including the captain. A few false promises of freedom or pardon and they were spilling everything.


    +++


    Luka had lived two thirds of his life in a penal station in Nimbus, after one of his classmates overheard him cursing the Lion''s Guard and promptly ratted him out for the infamous -and lavish- rewards the piss-guard gave to its loyal informants.


    He¡¯d managed to stay away from the gangs and joined one of the more honest work crews, spending his spare scrip on food that tasted marginally better thanboiled cardboard. His sentence had been just fifteen years; maybe the officer that sentenced him had gotten a sloppy from his mistress and decided to be generous on that day-. Just ten days before his sentence was up, he got a battery of citations for his ¡®unsafe work ethic¡¯ and had his sentence extended by another eight years.


    State-sec didn¡¯t give two shits if somebody walked out of the airlock breathing pure pixie dust instead of oxygen, so Luka had known the judgment was bullshit. He was never getting out of that rock.


    Now, one ballsy escape attempt and a nightmarish trip later, he was safe. Or, at least, that¡¯s what everybody was telling him.


    Luka wasn¡¯t sure; life in under the Akritan Dynasty looked too good to be true. Then again, life outside the kingdom was rumored to be better


    What he did know was the following.


    The refugees, his refugees, had received assistance before the even managed to dock in ¡®Bridgehead Station¡¯. Dozens of shuttles, military and civilian, had delivered much needed food and medical supplies, as well as doctors, nurses and technicians. Meanwhile, a pair of small warships from the ¡®Polarii Navy¡¯ -that name was familiar- had escorted them to the station.


    Upon arrival, instead of being relegated to some faraway dock to wait out the local bigshot¡¯s judgment, they¡¯d been welcomed into the station. That had been¡­stressful; many had grown too attached to the ships to leave. Yet many more were eager to smell fresh air and gain some semblance of privacy that the tight quarters of the barges couldn¡¯t provide.


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    The station appeared to be still under construction, yet most of the families and orphans -especially the orphans- had been once-more moved from the large halls and lobbies into habitation sections with beds and private bathrooms. The rest had been quickly assigned tents, while construction on yet more apartments had visibly intensified.


    In the mean time, state-sec officers -police, they called them here- had arrived to interview everyone. They¡¯d also taken pictures, fingerprints and names; within hours each refugee had a shiny new identification card that labeled them as an asylum seeker. Nobody he knew of had ¡®disappeared¡¯, which usually happened when you garnered the attention of state-sec for more than a few minutes.


    Each interviewee had been asked a number of questions, but none felt like the trap questions that state-sec asked during its interrogations to force confessions. Instead, the dynasty¡¯s police officers had focused on health problems, family status and their education level. Luka, who¡¯d answered -truthfully- that he worked as a miner in space, had been asked -and they¡¯d been rather insistent that they were not forcing him to accept- to participate in another interview to determine his skills.


    All other miners and skilled workers had been faced with similar questions. Many, like Luka, had cautiously accepted. Some out of fear of repercussions, others -like himself- out of curiosity. Instead of police officers, the interview had been conducted by fellow industry members. Miners, refinery workers, electronics specialists and the like.


    After all was said and done, the refugees had been provided with cooked meals¡­and what meals! Vegetables, fruits, meat -real meat!-, spices and even sweets. The refugees had eaten their fill and then some, and then they¡¯d been allowed to sleep. Most peacefully; a good meal and good treatment did wonders for the soul.


    At breakfast, which had been served nine standard hours later and was equally luxurious, Luka had been approached by a woman who said she worked for the Duke himself. That had nearly scared the shit out of him. Then she¡¯d informed him that the man had asked for a private meeting. Luka had been allowed two hours to consider the offer, during which he talked with his friends.


    As he found out, each ¡®captain¡¯ of the mining barges had received a similar offer.


    Two hours later, they were all was flown down to the planet Domusec, to meet the Duke of the Akrites Dynasty.


    +++


    When the shuttle touched down and he stepped into solid ground for the first time in decades, Luka wept. A full minute later he regained his bearings, and seeing his escorts waiting for him had jumped up and started apologizing. The men and women dressed in military uniforms had simply smiled and patted them on the back.


    Then they gave them flowers.


    To him, they gave a white flower -a dandelion he called it- shelter in a plastic cup with a fist-full of moist soil. Luka was not shamed to say he¡¯d cradled the beautiful thing with more care than his best friend¡¯s child.


    Feeling cathartic, the group of five refugees and their escorts were driven a short distance away to a gated manor. Some of them felt a bit uncomfortable, dressed simply as they were entering the residence of a noble, but Luka had been far too focused observing the creases and curves of his beautiful flower to give two shits about his clothing.


    The manor¡¯s staff gently ushered them into a dining room, one of its walls glass from top to bottom to show off the view of the valley. One of the captains had said something about terraforming, but Luka had ignored the conversation in favor of enjoying the view.


    Until their host arrived.


    He had expected Duke Akrites to be dressed in a jeweled formal dress, much like the Lion himself as portrayed on the vids. Instead the man had arrived dressed in a simple military uniform, even simpler than those worn by the lionsguard and the navy. The sight had been confusing, though every single refugee had reflexively stood at attention.


    ¡°Please, be at ease, friends. I¡¯d like to personally welcome you to the duchy¡­as well as Domusec. I understand that you¡¯ve all missed the feeling of dirt under your feet. You¡¯re more than welcome to wake up to that feeling for the rest of your lives, if you so wish it.¡±


    Luka already liked him.


    ¡­


    The meal had been lavish, yet at odds with whatever notions they all had about how nobility ate. Instead of confusingly tiny portions of absurdly exotic foods and bottles of alcohol worth more than a shuttle, they¡¯d been served a course of soup, fish, vegetables and chicken breast, alongside simple water or juice.


    All of them had dug in with gusto, eschewing conversation entirely until the meal was complete. Half an hour and several plates of food later, five humble refugees and a single noble sat around the table eating lemon ice cream.


    ¡°I suppose you are all wondering why I brought you here.¡±


    The duke¡¯s words made them all pause. Had he ¡®wined and dined¡¯ them, as the flicks said, before delivering the gut punch? The five of them remained silent, though laser focused on their benefactor¡¯s next words.


    ¡°It¡¯s quite simple really. My nation is growing, which means there are lots of opportunities for work. I assume you understand that if you wish to live here long term, you must find some form of employment, yes?¡±


    They all nodded cautiously, to which the duke chuckled.


    ¡°Nobody will ask you to work in a specific place, such as a factory or mine. Really, you¡¯re free to move around the duchy however you like so long as you follow the laws and pay your taxes. Said laws are all inside this book, of which any person can acquire a free copy from law enforcement officers and civil servants. It is also publicly available on the intranet, so you should have no difficulty getting ahold of it.¡±


    One of the other four captains raised his hand, and the duke gestured for him to speak.


    ¡°I mean no offense, my lord, but¡­what if somebody doesn¡¯t want to follow these laws?¡±


    You could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. But only for a moment, before the duke smiled bitterly and spoke.


    ¡°I did not expect such hesitation. The matter is quite simple; they can either grab the first transorbital shuttle to Polaris or gather a group of like-minded individuals, hop on one of your mining barges and continue on their journey. We¡¯ll even fix it up and fill its antimatter fuel tank to its maximum capacity.¡±


    ¡°So¡­there won¡¯t be repercussions?¡± Luka asked, and the duke¡¯s eyes turned to his own.


    ¡°You misunderstand me. All crime is punished, but depending on the crime your people will be treated with understanding and a light punishment. A youth vandalizing public property will get a slap on the wrist; a rapist will get to see how long they can last submerged in a pool of liquid nitrogen. In short, so long as you don¡¯t do to others what you wouldn¡¯t want others to do to you, you¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    His words were¡­brutal, but fair. Luka liked that, compared to the poisoned honey that spewed out of state-sec¡¯s lips every time they made a public announcement. Benefit this, reward that, then a dozen people disappeared overnight and goods went out of stock for a month or two due to ¡®supply disruptions¡¯.


    ¡°Now, let¡¯s go back to business. If your people want to stay here, they will need to work. Skilled or unskilled, we¡¯ll take anybody. If they want to make more money, they can get educated for free in their spare time. It doesn¡¯t matter if you¡¯re a widow with three kids or a cripple with just a single arm and two fingers to your name, there is always a job that needs doing. And I can personally guarantee that all of them will allow you to live a live-able life. Food on the table, a roof over your heads, good air to breath and a doctor that¡¯s there for when you¡¯re sick.¡±


    ¡°My¡­my lord.¡± Luka spoke. ¡°Why are you telling us all of this?¡±


    ¡°Because it appears that your people trust you. They trusted you enough to get them out of the hellhole of a station your country put you in, so they probably trust you enough to ask questions and demand answers. When you leave my home and return to Bridgehead Station, I want you to be able to answer their questions in full, so that they can make educated choices about what kind of future they want for themselves.¡±


    ¡°I hope that¡¯s not too big of an ask, ladies and gentlemen.¡±

 Chapter 16 - Engines of War

    Throughout imperial history, people had asked the same question.


    ¡°Why isn¡¯t my life better?¡±


    The answer was complex, but at its root there was a single problem; the demand for resources was always greater than the supply. And the biggest, by far, drain on resources was the most ancient of rituals in humanity¡¯s history: war.


    Humanity had gone to the stars, but that simply expanded the size of the battlefield. Arsenals grew from city-killers to planet-killers, weapons of such great power that entire cults grew around them. The cost of weapons had expanded, too.


    A pre-solar popgun might only need a handful of tools and a few kilograms of steel, but a kilometer-sized warship could beggar an entire warship.


    And then came the great limiter. Those who chose not to participate in the eons-old game of life and death where often the first to lose. For it was always better to beggar your nation than to see the enemy raze it. Only a player could win, and James was hellbent on winning this time.


    ¡­


    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, I think all of you understand the situation we find ourselves in.¡± James spoke to his gathered confidants and allies.


    Their expressions were grim, but determined. That much was expected of them, after ten years of war and generations fighting against the warlords of the Fringe.


    ¡°Well¡­¡± Valeriy Sukachyov spoke up. ¡°At least we had a year of rest. Next time, maybe it¡¯ll be two years.¡±


    Everyone chuckled at the grizzled miner¡¯s words. James smiled bitterly at his words. He was loathe to call this time of peace to an end, but war waited for no man.


    ¡°As you all know, three days ago refugees from the Kingdom of Leonis were chased into our systems by warships of the Royal Leonian Guard Corps. This is one of two factions currently battling for control of the kingdom. Patrol Squadron Two, commanded by Commodore Luke Gaines, engaged the RGC task force. The outcome of this engagement was our total victory, as the enemy warships were destroyed or disabled without a single casualty or injury on our side.¡±


    With a gesture of his hand, the small screens embedded on the table in front of every participant came to life. They showed a map of the nearby systems, each dot connected by lines according to the routes that starships could take via hyperdrive.


    Pollux and Leonis weren¡¯t direct ¡®neighbours¡¯, but only a single star system separated the two -and a small one at that-. It would only take four weeks for group of warships to get from Domusec to Solomon.


    ¡°Harriet, if you would¡­¡¯ James asked his chief of staff, who nodded and stood up from her seat.


    ¡°Considering the distances, it should take two to three months before the royal guard sends somebody to check up on their lost warships. If we take out that scout force -and that¡¯s a big if-, we¡¯ll have four to five months before they send a truly dangerous group of forces.¡±


    Governor Moore raised his hand. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t the, uh, scout force be a threat?¡±


    Commander Noriega shook her head. ¡°That ties into information we¡¯ve gleaned from the interviews with RGC prisoners of war conducted by the Bureau of Naval Intelligence. Commander Hall is better suited to answering those questions.¡±


    The meeting¡¯s focus turned to the chief of the newly-reorganized BNI. The man stood up, his face carefully schooled into a neutral expression.


    ¡°As Commander Noriega said, we¡¯ve conducted interviews with officers of the RGC. I should note that simply offering them a good meal and a visit to the flower fields outside Cradleton was enough to break most of them.¡±


    The intelligence officer inserted a memory stick into his own screen, sharing a series of schematics with the rest of the meeting¡¯s attendees.


    ¡°And what might this be, Stefan?¡± James asked, feigning ignorance for the benefit of those amongst them that had not been briefed beforehand.


    ¡°The Sentinel-class frigate, your grace. Four of these ships were defeated by Commodore Gains¡¯ squadron. Now, our navy¡¯s regulations classify a frigate as a warship between three hundred and five hundred and fifty meters long, with a mass between thirty-five and fifty-five thousand metric tons. That includes light, regular and heavy frigate sub-classes.¡±


    CEO Kim spoke up. ¡°This is much smaller.¡±


    ¡°Correct. A standard Sentinel-class frigate is just three hundred meters long and weighs just thirty kilotons. To us, it¡¯s right about the size of a heavy corvette, and under-equipped for the task. Navy engineers have also listed a number of differences. Though their reactors are more efficient than ours, the ships employ railguns instead of coilguns and laser focusing arrays that cause eleven percent greater dispersion at one light second. They¡¯re also lacking in proper maintenance, though this observation might just be a unit-specific irregularity¡±


    ¡°How bad are they, compared to one of the navy¡¯s frigates?¡± Moore asked.


    Commander Smith, James¡¯ tactical officer, answered the governor¡¯s question.


    ¡°That¡¯s a complicated question¡­but in general terms, one of our own Aegis-class frigates is significantly better. They are a third longer and fifty percent heavier, and by our estimates carry more and better weapons as well as sensors. The only area where they outclass us is maximum speed.¡±


    At the governor¡¯s confused expression, the commander sighed.


    ¡°Theoretically, a ship can go up to speeds infinitesimally close to the speed of light. However, after a point, the rate at which micrometeorites degrade its shields and armor becomes unsustainable. The navy¡¯s ship can sustain speeds up to thirty percent of the speed of light, while our civilian ships just twenty percent.¡±


    ¡°So¡­how much do the leonian ships outclass our own?¡±


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    ¡°They can reach thirty-five percent of the speed of light. That can mean life or death, but in very limited cases. After all, it takes a whole longer for them to reach that speed thanks to their weaker engines and as much time to slow down. In a normal combat environment, our ships can run circles around theirs.¡±


    One-on-one combat superiority was almost certain; the highest ranking officers of the ships had confessed the dimensions of several ship classes. In general terms, leonian ships were a class smaller if measured by akritan standards.


    Yet war, on a strategic scale, was as a game of numbers just as much as quality, and numbers had a quality of their own.


    ¡°The number of warships in the kingdom¡¯s arsenal is¡­significant, but we do not have accurate numbers.¡± Lieutenant commander Hall continued.


    ¡°Combined numbers between the former royal navy, which now styles itself as the republican navy, as well as the royal guard, point to as many as eight battleships and battlecruisers, twenty-five cruisers, with an equivalent number of escorts. Even with our advantage in technology and build quality, we could not take the kingdom at its prime. Fortunately for us, we will not be.¡±


    According to the BNI¡¯s data, civil war had erupted following the king¡¯s death some eight to nine months ago. The ¡®lionsguard¡¯ and the republican navy¡¯s arsenals were impossible to gauged with biased data, though the length of the war meant there was some level of parity between the two warring factions. And that meant there was a niche the dynasty could take advantage of.


    ¡°Considering we¡¯ve already damaged our relations with the RGC to an irreparable degree, it is only logical to align -if only temporarily- with the republican navy.¡± Hall proposed, pausing as everybody waited for James¡¯ response.


    Though the duke liked to hold meetings, take the opinions of his subordinates under advise and even delegate entire sections of the government to those deemed most loyal and capable, nobody had any illusions about who led the dynasty. The Akritan Dynasty had never lost a sovereign to internal strife; ruthlessness ran in the genes, and hierarchy was taught before a child could walk.


    ¡°Suppose we manage to form a temporary alliance with the republican navy. Commander Smith, could we pull off a victory?¡± He asked the tactical officer, who¡¯d turned into the defacto leader of the navy in day-to-day affairs.


    The stiff, expressionless man nodded. ¡°I¡¯m positive, Your Grace, though I will not promise anything. The number of ships in our possession is limited; a single defeat could spell doom not only for the campaign but our very survival.¡±


    Many winced, but James simply nodded at his subordinate¡¯s words. ¡°Then we need to bolster our numbers. Where should we focus?¡±


    ¡°Destroyers.¡± Smith answered back in an instant; he¡¯d probably already thought about it. ¡°Our agility, quality and experience in deep-strike and raiding operations would be best served by more destroyer-sized vessels. I and my subordinates have already gamed a number of scenarios against leonian cruisers. Our destroyers are agile, relatively stealthy, well-armed and can fit all our advanced technology. But they are also easy to crew and relatively cheap to build.¡±


    Kim nodded at Smith¡¯s words, with James immediately hopped on. ¡°You agree, Ms. Kim? Tell me, what could you build right now?¡±


    The shrewd businesswoman smiled. ¡°Kim Industries¡¯ mobile shipyard is currently laying down the hulls for two more patrol boats for the polarii navy, which should lessen the need for anti-piracy patrols for our own navy. But our new ship-building facilities on Bridgehead station will be coming online in the next week. We can fit up to eight new destroyers, though I¡¯d limit it to a flight of four to reserve space for repairs and maintenance.¡±


    The duke nodded. ¡°What do you need?¡±


    ¡°Running round-the-clock and with ample resources, my people can have that flight ready for the navy in five to six months. But I must emphasize the ¡®ample resources¡¯ part. Valeria Mining¡¯s operations are expanding too slowly to meet such a jump in demand. With current production the ships will be done in eight, maybe ten months.¡±


    Almost everybody frowned at her words, save for James and Valeriy. The two men looked at each other, then James looked back at Kim with a knowing smile.


    ¡°I think you will find production increasing meteorically in the next few days or so.¡±


    +++


    ¡°You¡­want us to mine?¡± Luka looked at the female officer.


    He and the rest of the ¡®Refugee Council¡¯ -the five ¡®captains¡¯ and six other refugees trusted by the group- had been gathered in a meeting room on Bridgehead Station to discuss the future of their people.


    Luka had dreaded the meeting. The mining barges were running on a skeleton crew but otherwise full of akritan technicians, who let out such gasps as they went about their work that Luka wondered how the ships had gotten them here. By the latest estimates, two of the barges would be ready to set sail in two weeks, with the other three void-capable within two more months.


    In other words, his people had no way to leave. The duke had promised him they could leave after the ships were repaired if they wanted to, but if he decided to withdraw his promise in the mean time they could do nothing about it. Station C3 had only had a handful of state-sec guards; the frigates pursuing them had simply been in the area.


    Bridgehead was a whole different beast. The station served as the anchorage of the entire akritan navy, as well as the home of hundreds if not thousands of marines and loyal workers. The leonians were outnumbered and out-gunned, and their ships were locked with magnetic docking clamps that would take a ton of plastic explosives to break off.


    ¡°Correct.¡± Commander Noriega said, raising her hand. ¡°And before you all say anything, I¡¯d like to point out a few key differences between your previous¡­work, and this offer. Here, every man and woman gets a choice. We¡¯ve got worker shortages in nearly every sector, so really your people are free to go where they are needed. If they can weld, there are three different companies who would take them. If they have advanced skills, they¡¯ll get snapped up even faster.¡±


    ¡°So¡­we have a choice.¡± One of the other captains repeated.


    ¡°Quite. However, the dynasty needs more minerals. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve already been told that we expect hostilities to commence with the Leonian Royal Guard in the next few months¡­¡±


    The council-members writhed in discomfort, knowing full well that they¡¯d brought war to their saviors¡¯ doorstep. Nobody could blame them¡­except themselves.


    ¡°¡­and the dynasty¡¯s shipbuilders have received orders for new ships, weapons, munitions and other war mat¨¦riel. By my estimations, we will need an additional three hundred and fifty thousand tons of iron, copper, tungsten and other raw materials in the next six months. Considering how important the extraction industry is in the dynasty¡¯s war planning, the duke is willing to provide certain benefits to everybody who participates.¡±


    One of the woman¡¯s assistants, handed out a printed list, giving time for the council members to read through it.


    Many¡¯s eyes jumped at the first. Permanent residence rights after two years of work. Citizenship in five, compared to the standard ten. Yet there was more.


    Pay would be good, as would the working hours. Eight hour shifts for six sleep cycles with another one off work. Compared to their previous conditions, working twelve or fourteen hour shifts to cover their quotas with no ¡®days off¡¯, this offer was heavenly.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­is the last one real?¡± A councilwoman asked, to which the commander nodded with a knowing smile.


    ¡°Yup. We¡¯re offering this to every council member, especially the ¡®captains¡¯.¡± She glanced at Luka, her piercing gaze making his hairs stand up. ¡°You get a proper crew able-bodied men and women to work under you onboard one of the barges, and we¡¯ll give you a company.¡±


    ¡°The dynasty will keep forty percent of ownership, with the rest put in a trust managed by the captain and their senior officers. Each man will be given stock in the company along with their monthly paycheck, until the trust has been fully dispersed among the crew. The company won¡¯t be required to pay taxes for the next year, and the dynasty will provide you with new equipment, provisions and fuel, enough to last you half that.¡±


    Luka raised his hand.


    ¡°Please speak, Captain Belloti.¡±


    ¡°And what happens to the¡­revenue, m-ma¡¯am?¡± He asked. ¡°We will be selling the ore on the market, correct?¡±


    The commander nodded with a grin. ¡°Correct, and a good question. Your revenue will go into maintaining your ships, buying new tools, fuel and provisions, as well as paying everybody. And if you find that there is some left over¡­well, the company will do what the majority of stock holders decide. ¡°That¡¯s your people, Captain.¡±

 Interlude 2.3 - Industrializing Polaris

    Governor Samantha Polk looked outside the window of the helicopter, overlooking the sprawing factory complex.


    At nearly a million square meters, Complex Alpha was mind-bogglingly large, and had an equally large appetite for manpower and resources.


    Polaris Heavy Industries -which was now a third akritan by equity- had commisioned the construction of an entire new town around it. Twenty thousand polarii workers had moved in along with their families, and dozens of businesses had moved over or been established to service their every need. Several thousand akritans were also to be housed, from senior technicians sent to train her own people to R&D folk worth their weight in rhodium.


    With the expansion of PHI, polarii industry was experiencing a collective growth spurt. Goldspeak Mining, which had previously focused on mining platinum and its many cousins, was now expanding into bulk minerals like iron, copper and nickel. Logistics and construction were also benefiting from the expansion.


    Of couse, growth didn¡¯t exist in a vaccum. Money had to come from somewhere, and right now the governments, akritan and polarii, were footing the bill. The economies of the Pollux system were no longer catering to the civilian populace.


    They had become war economies.


    Compared to the highly-automated and impossibly efficient foundries and shipyards of the Akritan Dynasty, polarii industies were weak and inefficient. Yet that was slowly changing, as the Dynasty relied more and more on cheap polarii labor and materials to produce the nuts, bolts and wiring that went on their warships and missiles.


    Complex Alpha served just that purpose. It was a giant parts factory, taking in refined metal and spitting out everything from screws to pipes and plating.


    And Governor Polk was here to inspect it.


    The helicopter -an akritan import, too- landed in a designated helipad. A committee of polarii and akritan businessmen, factory managers and military attaches was waiting for her.


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    ¡°Welcome to Complex Alpha, madam governor.¡± Karl Vost, the CEO of Polaris Heavy Industries, was the first to greet her.


    ¡°Thank you, Mr. Vost. I look forward to the tour.¡± Katrina replied, spending a few moments shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries.


    Businessmen like Vost looked at her with happy, if reserved, expressions. Many colonies had allowed corporations to do as they pleased so long as they allowed the colony to industrialize, but there had been a rather firm warning against that by the Duke in the months preceding his deployment to Nimbus.


    She¡¯d established a rather wolfish anti-corruption agency, and there was a lot of new legislation following industrial developments. Price controls, price gouging prevention, heavy fines and jail time for executives. All part of the stick in her strategy.


    It was simple, really. So long as the corporations stayed proper, they got orders. And if they didn¡¯t¡­they were in for a world of pain. Execs could be replaced, and shareholders were far too afraid of seeing their dividends crushed by hefty fines.


    It was a careful balance¡­but Katrina thrived in it. A former entrepreneur who¡¯d played in the great game that was the republican economy herself, she knew the habits of power-hungry execs and grubby shareholders all too well. The only thing that bothered her was the akritan companies¡¯ opinion¡­which was positive.


    She didn¡¯t know what the man did to keep those giants in line, but it was effective. Maybe that was just what a steady carrot-and-stick policy did after some time. Or maybe a decade of war had changed the execs¡¯ priorities.


    ¡­


    ¡°And now we¡¯ve arrived at the CNC sub-complex.¡± Vost explained.


    Katrina nodded, taking in the expansive factory floor.


    The first thought to come to mind was ¡®not good enough¡¯. She¡¯d been witness to the absolute efficiency of akritan factories, and this was not it. The floor layout was obviously messy, and output was slower. She knew, because Katrina had seen those very same CNC machines on ANS Hephaestus churn out bolts much faster.


    She shook her head, dismissing the complaint.


    Polarii skilled labour was inexperienced, ¡®green¡¯. Many of the workers had been in the mines only a year before, changing jobs as the dynasy brought in better tech that could be trusted to do more work autonomously for cheap. Training took time; it was a small wonder that they were reliably churning out parts.


    That would change with time. Crews would accrue experienced, more senior workers training new hires faster and better than the generation before them. There would be less and less need for oversight by akritan technicians and management, which prevented accidents and bad batches in return for reduced efficiency and speed.


    ¡°Output has increased seven percent in just two weeks.¡± Vost noted with an understanding smile. ¡°And I believe it will keep increasing for some time as we iron out the kinks in the system.¡±


    Katrina nodded, smiling back. ¡°I¡¯m sure it will, Mr. Vost. I¡¯m sure it will.¡±

 Update - Chapter Delay

    Todays chapter will be delayed from 4pm UTC/GMT to, to 6 or 8pm due to an unexpected hiccup in my holiday schedule.


    PS: Damn people, we''re on Rising Stars!


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 Chapter 17 - Decimation

    Cecilio Kranz had been born and raised a navy man.


    His mother and father had both been officers, though the latter had belonged to the Royal Marine Corps. As a child, he¡¯d grown up in anchorages and military bases, the scenery changing with every promotion and change of post.


    With space in his blood, he¡¯d joined the navy and tried to make a life out of it. Unfortunately, the wants of the nobility outweighed the merits of the common man. He was passed over for promotions, had his credit stolen by blue-blooded morons with half his brains and nearly court-martial for questioning the judgement of a noble-born superior officer -in private!-.


    How that had led to him leading a rebellion against the ¡®old nation¡¯ was a question he himself couldn¡¯t answer, but he held great pride in his role. Which meant that even on such a shitty day, he walked with a steady gait through the corridors of his flagship.


    The Obelisk was an old lass, but she was a prime example of the saying ¡®they build things better back in the day¡¯. Say what you will about the Hegemony, they built their ships like no other. Of course, having a one-point-five kilometer battleship was different to being able to maintain it¡­


    Just as his musings began to take a dark turn, a chime sounded from the intercom on his office table.


    ¡°Yes?¡± He asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s Captain Doss, Admiral.¡± His secretary explained.


    ¡°Let him in, lieutenant.¡± Admiral Kranz said, rubbing his temples. ¡®What fresh hell brought him here now?¡¯


    A moment later, the door to his office opened and in walked Mateo Doss, his chief of staff. Yet instead of worried, furious or terrified, the unassuming man looked confused.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on, Captain? Did another cache get found out?¡± Kranz asked, gesturing to the unoccupied seat in front of his office. ¡°Take a seat.¡±


    Captain Emilio Doss sat down, letting out a sigh. ¡°One of our ISR corvettes out near the jump point to the Nimbus system got a hit.¡±


    Kranz¡¯s eyebrows jumped.


    ¡°How are they bringing in more ships from there? I don¡¯t think they have anything more than a couple of frigates, right?¡±


    Emilio raised his right index finger, prompting Kranz to stop.


    ¡°They aren¡¯t bringing in more ships; they are sending them to Nimbus¡­and maybe further than that.¡±


    ¡°Elaborate.¡±


    ¡°ONI¡¯s codebreakers got lucky with the rotating password scheme the royalists are using, and we managed to get a bunch of stuff. Nothing particularly critical, save for the following.¡±


    The captain slid a PDA across the desk.


    ¡°A royalist naval task force reportedly chased a group of escaping penal workers to the Pollux system, six standard weeks ago. They¡¯ve yet to return, and since the republican stock market crashed there have been perilously few traders passing through, so we have no idea what¡¯s going on.¡±


    Admiral Kranz nodded. The last year or so had seen the lowest number of trade convoys since the Second War of Reclamation. The freshest news they had from out-kingdom was ten weeks old.


    ¡°So, what, they¡¯re sending a scouting party?¡±


    ¡°More than that. ONI¡¯s analysts suspect the royalist authorities in Nimbus are afraid of a revolt. And with our recent defeats and logistics issues, they had the ships to spare for a small task force.¡±


    ¡°Define ¡®small¡¯.¡± Kranz asked, leaning in.


    ¡°Half of the Predator squadron.¡±


    ¡°The¡­what? Why would they send them?¡± The admiral asked. ¡°Those ships are some of the most veteran in their entire damn navy, right behind the Capitol Garrison¡­wait.¡± His eyes widened in realization. ¡°No, even they aren¡¯t that stupid¡­right?¡±


    Captain Doss grinned. ¡°It appears so. We suspect a feud is developing between the commander of Predator Squadron and the royalist high command. They are sending as much of the squadron as they can spare out to the boondocks for a couple of months until they can find a proper way to curb their influence.¡±


    Kranz remained silent for several moments, pondering on an appropriate response. This was good; the infamous Commodore Troya¡¯s forces would be weakened for several weeks, time during which the Republican Engineer Corps could rebuild the caches and automated factories those ships had blown to smithereens in the past few weeks.


    The easiest path was doing nothing. The royalists had just removed a portion of their navy from the system of their own volition, effectively wiping whatever advantage they¡¯d gained from the thousands of tons of supplies Predator Squadron had destroyed.


    But if Kranz had taken the easiest path his entire life, the revolution would¡¯ve never happened and he would still be kowtowing to the pompous pricks and sociopaths of the King¡¯s Court.


    ¡°Who can we send after them?¡±


    Doss¡¯s eyes twitched. ¡°After them, sir? You wish to ambush them?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Kranz facepalmed. ¡°I want somebody to keep an eye on them, maybe even harass them. If we send a big enough force to take those guys out, the royalists will see it and mobilize their entire wall of battle to come and wreck what¡¯s left while we¡¯re weakened.¡±


    The truth was, they didn¡¯t have any big hitters to spare. While they held the advantage in numbers, the royalists had control over the majority of capital ships. The handful in Kranz¡¯s arsenal had only been granted to commoner captains by virtue of the late crown prince¡¯s stillborn reformation efforts.


    Captain Doss hummed. ¡°We do have something. One of our Scout-class light cruisers is slated to leave drydock in a couple of days, but we could have it launch in hours.¡±


    ¡°Excellent.¡±


    ¡ª


    The LRS Tomahawk cruised quietly through the void, her crew keeping their eyes peeled for the enemy.


    They were in deep space, far away from the myriad of satellites, moons and asteroids oft-used to scramble hostile sensors. The closest friendly task force to their own was hours away on a direct intercept course, but that was thankfully the same for the enemy¡¯s units.


    ¡°Status on Bandit Group Three?¡± Captain Luca Bosetti asked.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    ¡°He must¡¯ve noticed us, sir. Those ships are getting a broadside view of our drive plume, so they definetely have us on thermals -at the very least-.¡±


    The sensor officer¡¯s report was greeted with a short acknowledgment by the veteran. ¡®As expected.¡¯


    Even during these short luls between battle, there were ongoing skirmishes, raids and infiltrations between them and the inbreds. BG-3¡¯s four destroyers were far too busy defending their charges; a chain of asteroid mining and refining bases that would¡¯ve made for a juicy target were they left undefended.


    So the Tomahawk continued on its path to the jump point, each sailor counting the hours, minutes and seconds down until they crossed into hyperspace. There was a certain dread to approaching an unsecure jump point, knowing that warships could appear out of the blue at any moment.


    Yet their worries, much to the sailors¡¯ joy, were disproved. The light cruiser approached the jump point and engaged its hyperdrive without a hitch. Several seconds of itchy teeth and smelling ruberries later, they arrived in Nimbus.


    At just a red dwarf star surrounded by a single volcanic world and a thick asteroid belt, the place wasn¡¯t much to write home about. The only useful export was refined minerals, mined and processed by penal colony stations established decades ago.


    Bosetti and his crew had once been part of a convoy raid targeting just those exports. Yet the loss in production by the inbreds¡¯ slave factories had been deemed far too expensive; ships were simply of more use inside the Leonis system rather than fighting in the kingdom¡¯s other territories.


    Both factions¡¯ focus on the Leonis system had drawn the ships stationed in the outer territories back home, effectively putting an end to large-scale conflict outside of said system.


    At least, that was supposed to have happened. Evidence pointed to other conclusions.


    Evidence like an unfolding battle, within the confines of the nimbian kuiper belt.


    ¡ª


    James had been born at a time of peace and stability, and his father had wanted him to inherit it. Unlike his grandfather, an imperial admiral-made-noble who had always been a warlord at heart, his father had been a keen administrator and excellent diplomat who had no peers at the negotiation table.


    Post-exile, he¡¯d followed in his father¡¯s steps in an attempt to make up for the time lost during the war. For the first time in a decade the dynasty was at peace, and every day he grew further from his grandfather and closer to his father¡¯s role.


    All of that was gone now.


    ¡°Admiral, the enemy is changing course!¡± The flag bridge¡¯s sensor officer reported. ¡°Enemy ships are turning their bows towards us, they¡¯ve activated their fire control radars!¡±


    ¡°So much for stealth¡­¡± He muttered, grinning. ¡°All ships to activate Fire Plan Bravo and move to combat intercept, maximum acceleration.¡±


    Looking down at the tactical table, he smothered a chuckle. The odds were in their favour, but he wasn¡¯t about to celebrate before the game was over.


    ¡°Well, the ambush had been a long shot.¡± Captain Noriega spoke.


    ¡°Agreed. Their sensors were better than intelligence suggested.¡± Commander Smith pointed out. ¡°Had we conducted a cold launch, they would¡¯ve been spooked minutes earlier and we would¡¯ve had to chase them a lot longer.¡±


    ¡°Unfortunate, but hardly debilitating.¡± James said, inspecting the battle map.


    On paper, the odds were just barely in their favour. The lionsguard task force numbered some two cruisers and three frigates, while their own comprised of some one battlecruiser, one cruiser and three destroyers.


    But the universe liked to joke, and this time the leonian royalists were caught in the punchline.


    James¡¯ warships bloomed like deadly flowers, shooting out swarms of missiles. A single destroyer could launch some twenty-four birds per salvo, and a cruiser or battlecruiser could do many more than that. Nearly two hundred missiles, all equipped with laserheads.


    The lionsguard responded in kind a few seconds later, fire control radars holding solid locks over his ships. And yet for all of their surprisingly advanced FCR tech, the ships weren¡¯t up to par in terms of firepower. Nearly three hundred missiles launched¡­but they were hardly enough.


    Ten years of war had tempered akritan missile design to a carefully maintained balance of power, maneuverability and cost. Compared to a standardized Falcon missile, the royalists¡¯ weapons were visibly lacking.


    ¡°They¡¯re slow, sir. Too slow.¡± Smith noted, and had the man not been special in his own way he would be grinning like a madman. ¡°And their penetration aids are hardly worth the name. The Circe will make short work of them without trouble.¡±


    Unlike the flicks and the vids, which portrayed a bridge as a chaotic room full of screaming officers with veins bulging out of their foreheads, the real thing was much more reserved¡­yet real combat was visceral in its own right.


    The battlegroup¡¯s missile defenses stood as one, hundreds of sensors and computers tracking targets and calculating trajectories that were then assigned to laser clusters, point defense cannons and countermissile batteries.


    The distance between attacker and attacked only grew shorter, and each¡¯s defenses grew more accurate. Unfortunately for the enemy, akritan defenses were better. Weapon operators were trained, commanders were cool-headed and maintainance crews knew exactly how to take care of systems refined from crude prototypes into lean, mean, killing machines.


    ¡°Antimissiles away., FCR maintains solid lock on vampires.¡± Smith reported.


    The Gauntlet antimissile was a trustworthy, if rather aged, platform. It made up for its lacking onboard sensor package with high-bandwith laser guidance systems, which made it both cheap and small enough to fit in a Raider-class in spades.


    ¡®Four more minutes.¡¯ James thought as he examined the trajectory of their own missiles.


    The enemy had yet to launch their own counter-missiles, for reasons known only to them. The examples found in the two captured frigates had subpar warheads and manufacturing quality but were otherwise rather serviceable. Maybe stocks were running low?


    Or¡­akritan penetration aids were proving too strong for their sensors. Flares, jaff, active jamming and radar-dispersion technologies were some of the many pen-aids used by modern akritan missiles, to deadly effect. The R&D costs had been massive -they could¡¯ve funded a squadron of battlecruisers- but the actual manufacturing cost was relatively small and the effect was truly staggering.


    Vogdi warships, notoriously bad for their long and medium range missile defenses, had been caught with their pants down. They¡¯d made up for their weakness with numbers and sheer weight of firepower, but that didn¡¯t stop its designers and users from beaming with pride.


    ¡°Second salvo is ready, Admiral.¡± Smith reported.


    ¡°Launch.¡± James replied immediately, his eyes never leaving the battle map.


    Countermissiles struck at the lionsguard birds. As the survivors flew closer, laser defenses got more accurate and kinetic batteries spooled up. Though the latter¡¯s range was small, their effect was truly devastating.


    By the time the battlegroup¡¯s PDCs opened fire, there were only thirty-five vampires still alive and maintaining a lock. Within seconds that was reduced to less than a dozen, but it was hardly enough.


    The Vanguard¡¯s Hymn shook, subdued alarms blaring into life.


    ¡°Damage control, report.¡± James demanded.


    The damage control officer reported seconds later. ¡°Laserhead impacts in fore section, partial penetration. Missile tube F3 is disabled, ten to fifteen casualties and KIA. Damage control teams en route, minimal loss of combat capability.¡±


    With a grim acknowledgement of the crewmen¡¯s sacrifice, he turned back to the fleet-wide picture. Thankfully, it appeared most other hits had been shrugged off by the ships¡¯ shields and armor belts. One of his destroyers had a coilgun battery slagged by a penetrating hit -taking the entire gun crew with it- but no other casualties were reported.


    ¡®Now let¡¯s see what scars we gave the enemy.¡¯


    ¡°Multiple impacts on enemy vessels.¡± Smith noted. ¡°Estimating some twenty-nine missiles detonated succesfully.¡±


    ¡°Stars, they¡¯ve got meltdowns¡­¡± Noriega muttered.


    James nodded, looking over the sensor data.


    Crippling damage throughout the enemy fleet.


    One of the two cruisers -barely capable of being called that by akritan standards- had been annihilated entirely while another had lost most of its propulsion and was emitting no active sensor noise. There were only two destroyers left in any form visible to the human eye, and one of them had been split in half by secondary detonations.


    ¡°Sir, we¡¯ve entered dragonfire range.¡± Smith informed him, his eyes glinting with predatory glee.


    ¡°Very well. All ships, fire as you bear.¡±


    Tiny lasers sprung out of spinal mounts and haulking turret barrels, pointing at the pitiful remnants of the enemy task force. Their power was tiny in the grand scheme of things, barely scorching the paint off the enemy ships¡¯ hulls. But damage was not their job; they were merely clearing the path through the void of particles and micrometeorites.


    What came next was invisible, yet oh-so-powerful.


    Bursts of particles smaller than the human eye could see, accelerated to speeds so close to the speed of light as to fall under the ancient Laws of Relativity. Yet the mass-energy equation remained the same, and that was all that mattered.


    Shields and armor shattered under the full weight of akritan dragonfire. There was no defense for these poor souls who¡¯d strayed too close. The speed of the impact was so great that the surviving sailors hardly realized anything had been fired at them; a small mercy for the cloud of particles that had been a crew only seconds before.

 Chapter 18 - Strange Allies

    The bridge of the Tomahawk was silent, the crew left speechless by the destruction.


    They¡¯d seen and heard of many battles; some close calls decided by sheer luck, others total victories at the hands of a superior enemyy force or particularly sharp commander. Yet this¡­this had been entirely unlike all of them. It had been more similar to target practice¡­only the targets had been people.


    ¡°What is the¡­unknown fleet doing?¡± Captain Bosetti asked, flexing his hands.


    ¡°B-Boarding actions, sir.¡± His sensor officer reported. ¡°I¡¯m seeing a good dozen boarding craft approaching the¡­uh¡­the warship that¡¯s still solid.¡±


    Bosetti chuckled. An entire battle squadron of royalist warships -cruisers and destroyers!- had been reduced to a single destroyer stripped of its weapons and propulsion and left adrift in the void.


    The unknown fleet, on the other hand, was virtually pristine. The ship¡¯s sensors had detected a handful of succesful hits by the inbreds¡¯ missile barrage -a pittiful sum for such a great expenditure of munitions-, and of those even fewer had penetrated the mysterious ships¡¯ shields and armor.


    ¡°Do we know where those ships came from?¡±


    ¡°No match on any of our databases, Captain.¡± His intelligence officer reported, mumbling unintelligible curses to herself as she compared their sensor data with thousands of profiles. ¡°Closest profiles are¡­early post-collapse Hegemony cruisers.¡±


    ¡°What the hell are Collapse-era ships doing out here?¡±


    ¡ª


    ¡°They¡¯ve breached the bridge, Admiral.¡± Colonel Guerr reported to the rest of James¡¯ staff. ¡°The captain commited suicide before my men could grab him, but his XO and several officers are still alive.¡±


    The various gathered officers smiled, but there was hardly any celebration at the regimental commander¡¯s words. Such results were expected, when an entire company of the 101st boarded a warship protected by a handful of ill-equipped marines and panicked sailors.


    A few seconds later, the man spoke once more. ¡°Engineering¡¯s been captured, though my combat engineers have few hopes of regaining control without significant repairs. Your orders, Admiral?¡±


    James remained silent for several seconds, his eyes never leaving the boarded ship¡¯s signatue on the battlemap.


    ¡°Grab the officers, pick up whatever data you can from their computers and reformat their data drives. We¡¯ll leave their sailors and marines as they were; we¡¯ve nowhere to put them and they have life support and rations to last them a long time, enough to get picked up by one of the penal colonies.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Admiral.¡± Guerr nodded, turning to speak with his officers onboard the ship.


    In the mean time, James and the rest of his staff focused on the other¡­issues concerning the operation.


    ¡°Is that republican cruiser still there?¡±


    Lieutenant Commander Hall spoke up. ¡°It is. No propulsion, no active sensors¡­but the Circe¡¯s sensors picked up its arrival and we¡¯ve been tracking its heat emissions ever since. Its ballistic course will take it through the kuiper belt in four days.¡±


    The scout ship¡¯s crew likely thought themselves concealed, for had they known they were being watched they would¡¯ve likely fled.


    ¡°Is it likely they¡¯ll turn back before they get in interception range?¡± James asked


    It was Captain Smith who answered. ¡°Likely, though they haven¡¯t seen the true range of our missiles. The Vanguard¡¯s long-range ship-killers could get to them before they jump out. No witnesses, if you so desire, sir.¡±


    ¡°Oh, we have plenty of witnesses.¡± Stefan Hall refuted, pointing to the half-dozen penal colonies spread throughout Wolf 163. ¡°Going by the interviews of the refugees from station C3, there¡¯s about four thousand souls on every single one of those tin cans floating through the void. We¡¯re talking about twenty to thirty thousand of these poor souls.¡±


    James grimaced. His deep-strike unit had been privy to the truth of Vogdi POW camps where captured akritans were held. It¡¯d didn¡¯t sound too different from C3, minus the regular supply shipments. Prisoners were sent into the void in ill-maintained suits to mine minerals from asteroids for grueling shifts, returning to the station to eat tasteless and lacking meals and sleep for a handful of hours in beds drenched in sweat and disease.


    He would liberate Wolf 163, that much was certain. On that much, both heart and mind agreed.


    ¡°There will be no threatening or shooting missiles, gentlemen.¡± He spoke, and the two officers turned to look at him. ¡°I¡¯ve already drafted a message for the ship¡¯s commander, as well as another that he will take to the commander of the Republican Navy. If we want an alliance we have got to act in good faith.¡±


    ¡ª


    ¡°Captain, incoming message on the laser-comm.¡± The communications officer reported. ¡°It¡¯s coming from the¡­uh¡­from the unknown fleet, sir.¡±


    Luca Bosetti nearly jumped from his chair at the officer¡¯s latter sentence.


    ¡°Laser, not radio?¡± He asked, barely controlling his tone.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Sending messages via radio broadcast towards a jump point to bait out any spy ships was a common enough tactic, even if the sender wasn¡¯t certain of spies. But lasers such as those used to communicate securely over long distances required very specific target coordinates, and space was big.


    In short, the mysterious fleet knew they were spying on them.


    How long had they known? The Tomahawk had controlled its emissions carefully, and there hadn¡¯t been any spikes¡­right? Bosetti swore to have engineering check over the logs one by one after reading the message.


    Approaching the communications console, he leaned in to read the short message displayed.


    To the commanding officer of the republican warship that has been attempting to recontier this battle squadron while remaining hidden.


    The Akritan Dynasty has entered a state of war with your enemies. An alliance between the Dynasty and your Republic would be beneficial to both. Attached is a proposal for such an agreement signed by Duke James Akrites, first of his name. To ensure that this message is read only when reaching the headquarters of your nation, it has been encrypted in such a way as to require the use of significant processing power.


    At least one akritan warship will remain on station in this system for the forseeable future, awaiting a response.


    P.S.


    Boarding of royalist warships succesful. Remain on station for six to eighteen standard hours to receive intelligence. Consider this the first of many such exchanges if an alliance is termed.


    Captain Bosetti stood motionless, reading and re-reading the message.


    Akritan Dynasty? War? Alliance?


    This was way, way above his paygrade. This was the kind of stuff the admiralty made choices on¡­but of course, that¡¯s why the warships of this ¡®akritan dynasty¡¯ had sent the encrypte message.


    ¡°Is part of this transmission encrypted?¡± He asked the comms officer.


    The young man nodded. ¡°Yes, sir. It looks to be several times bigger than the unencrypted content. It¡¯d take weeks, maybe months, to crack the encryption with our computers¡¯ strength.¡±


    ¡°But what about the admiralty¡¯s computers?¡±


    ¡°I suspect they coul do it in much less time, Captain.¡± The lieutenant answered. ¡°But those kind of numbers are way above my paygrade.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡± Bosetti acknoledged, going back to his chair.


    ¡°We will remain on station for eighteen more hours, and continue with EMCON protocols. Inform engineering to re-verify that our emissions are up to par.¡±


    ¡ª


    A week later, the Tomahawk returned to the the Leonis system with a treasure trove of information and a message of the highest importance in its databanks.


    To an outsider¡¯s eyes all looked normal. Even its laser transmissions, if their contents were to somehow be intercepted by royalist spy ships stationed near republican communication satellites, would look normal. But all was not as it seemed.


    A codeword here. A secret meaning there.


    Before it even breached the kuiper belt a squadron of destroyers met up with it to escort it further into the system. The past month¡¯s lul had given way to conflict, and there was strength in numbers.


    When it finally breached the kuiper belt, and the impromptu squadron¡¯s sensors confirmed there were no unknown ships prolowing around the hidden communication satellites, the Tomahawk¡¯s laser communications system transmitted a burst transmission.


    Only a few dozen milliseconds long and incredibly difficult to detect, it carried a scarce few kilobytes of data. A dozen pages of text, compressed into a hundred lines of binary and encoded with the hardest encryption available to the navy.


    The squadron continued on its course. At first carefully, lest one of the many missile-mines seeded into the republican slice of the system by their enemies go active without them noticing. Then less so, for as it got closer to its destination space became safer and safer.


    They passed by hidden satellites by the dozen. Missile launchers and railguns built in asteroid craters, infrared sensors and passive radar encased in frozen methane and ice. Republican ships, too, became a more frequent sight. From tiny area defense gunships to destroyers and even cruisers, maintaining the security of the ¡®Eagle¡¯s nest.¡¯


    Finally, they arrived at their home port in Leonis VI-C. The destroyers would only stop for a few short hours to refuel and resupply what little they¡¯d spent, but the light cruiser was in for several days of maintainance, rest and relaxation. Save for its poor captain and intelligence officers, who were promptly whisked off deeper into the  moon¡¯s labyrinthine bunkers.


    ¡ª


    Captain Luca Bosetti did his best to look calm as he stood in front of his superior.


    He¡¯d done nothing wrong, and they both knew it. He wasn¡¯t here to answer for crimes or misdeeds, but to simply report. Yet the Admiral was a man few had met and even fewer knew on a personal level. There was a certain level of performance anxiety any proper republican officer experienced under the piercing gaze of Admiral Cecilio Kranz.


    ¡°And you are certain you followed proper emissions control protocols, captain?¡± Kranz questioned the man.


    Bosetti nodded fervently. ¡°Y-Yes, sir. I had my engineers check and check again for any possible flaws, but there were none. We even went on auxiliary power for several hours, and yet the, uh, akritan vessels continued to track us. We know, because they kept sending us intelligence updates every few hours.¡±


    Kranz nodded thoughtfully. ¡°Well¡­there is nothing more you could¡¯ve done, captain. You¡¯ve served the republican cause better than you can imagine on this mission, and for that you have my personal thanks. I¡¯ll see to it that your men are given two days¡¯ more leave.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll see to it that they appreciate your gratitude, sir.¡± The captain promised.


    ¡°Very well then. You are dismissed.¡±


    As the rattled captain walked out of the room, Admiral Kranz and Captain Doss were left by themselves. The two men looked at each other, exchanging the barest of glances before Kranz¡¯s chief of staff stood up. A minute later, he sat back down with two glasses of amber alkbrew and ice.


    At Kranz¡¯s raised eyebrow, the man replied. ¡°Is this not a cause for celebration, sir?¡±


    ¡°What, the Duke¡¯s proposal?¡± The admiral replied, swallowing half the glass in one shot.


    Doss nodded wordlessly.


    ¡°Well¡­yes.¡± Kranz nodded, wearing a weary smile. ¡°I suppose it is, though you and I both know their aid isn¡¯t coming for free.¡±


    ¡°Nothing¡¯s free, but their price is pretty cheap.¡± Doss countered. ¡°They¡¯re taking a hot potato off our hands, they¡¯ve already destroyed half a squadron of elites and they¡¯re bringing in more ships -big ships- to the fight.¡±


    ¡°For the price of a system.¡± Kranz rapped his fingers on the table. ¡°Wolf 163 might¡¯ve been rendered unexploitable by the war, but before that it provided more than twenty-five percent of the kingdom¡¯s raw materials. We¡¯re handing over tens of billions of lira in mining equipment, and tens of thousands of our people.¡±


    Doss sighed. ¡°Equipment that¡¯s useless to us until and unless we achieve victory, and people who would¡¯ve regarded us with suspicion at best and rebelled at worst. A third of them belong in a maximum security prison, and the rest would believe us -rightfully so- to have abandonned them to the royalists. We have neither the ships nor the resources to safeguard the system and help its people.¡±


    ¡°I know, Emilio.¡± Kranz nodded, clasping his subordinate¡¯s hand in his own. ¡°And I¡¯m not against this. Just because it¡¯s a bitter choice doesn¡¯t mean its a bad one. I¡¯ll sign the deal in the morning and send it on a messanger ship to Wolf 163. This ¡®Duke¡¯ of theirs should see our reply by the end of the week.¡±


    Captain Doss looked down at Kranz¡¯s palm, then grinned.


    ¡°Well then¡­I suppose I ought to make sure you don¡¯t back down.¡±


    The weary admiral¡¯s face split into a grin. ¡°My room or yours?¡±


    ¡°Yours, of course.¡± Doss giggled, leaning into him. ¡°You¡¯ve got silk sheets¡­¡±

 Chapter 19 - Under no Illusions

    Breaking news!


    Earlier today, the city of Jack¡¯s Point¡¯s declared its secession from the state. The town mayor and police captain¡¯s locations are unknown, with an armed group calling themselves the ¡®Polarii Revolutionary Council¡¯ announcing they were liberating the booming factory town from the ¡®imperialist shadow forces¡¯.


    Governor Katrina Polk has announced martial law in the province.


    Responding to the Tribune¡¯s request for comment during a press conference, the Governor said the following:


    ¡°We are doing everything we can to guarantee the safety of our citizens from terrorist violence. I ask every loyal citizen in Jack¡¯s Point to stay in their homes and prioritize the safety of themselves and their family above all else.¡±


    -The Aurora Tribune


    ¡­


    Terrorists capture the town of Jack¡¯s Point!


    The armed group ¡®Polarii Revolutionary Council¡¯ has managed to subvert law and order by force, and lock down the town.


    Colonel Gerhard Richmond, the commanding officer of the National Guard, has ordered the mobilization of fifteen hundred of our valiant soldiers to defend against this unhinged madmen!


    Speaking during a joint conference with the commander of AMF-P, responsible for all akritan marine and naval deployments on the planet, Colonel Richmond vowed to ¡®defeat extremism, by force if necessary¡¯.


    -Polarii Times


    ¡ª


    Katrina rushed through the corridor, her bodyguards forming an airtight cordon between her and the orbital¡¯s spacers.


    ¡®Composure is strength.¡¯


    The age-old adage rank in her head, clearing away the noise and panic of the day¡¯s events.


    Only hours ago, she¡¯d been in a conference room in the newly-furbished government headquarters, in one of many meetings with her cabinet about the cycle¡¯s budget. It was an enjoyable, if tiring, affair; the government had run something like a thirty-five percent surplus and they were finally able to implement a slew of upgrades to the educational and health services.


    Then her security attache whisked her out of the meeting and into a convoy of armored vehicles headed to the local spaceport, where she met up with Colonel Richmond of the nascent ¡®national guard¡¯. They were both promptly shoved into a navy shuttle to Polaris Station.


    So here they were, headed to the station¡¯s war room under military escort.


    ¡°Here we are, ma¡¯am.¡± The seniormost bodyguard gestured to an armored door.


    As Katrina and the colonel entered, they found the conference table inside already occupied by a pair of marines. Akritan marines, to be precise.


    ¡°And what might you be doing here, gentlemen?¡± She asked them.


    The pair quickly stood up and saluted. ¡°Lieutenant Colonel Sanders and Major Kidd, madam Governor, of the 12th Marine Regiment. We¡¯re here to help you deal with your¡­bug extermination.¡± The senior of the pair answered, his voiced tainted with disgust.


    Katrina frowned at the lieutenant-colonel¡¯s words. ¡°As much as I appreciate the gesture, gentlemen, Polaris can deal with its own internal problems. That¡¯s precisely why we created the national guard, isn¡¯t that right Colonel Richmond?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡± The colonel muttered, looking suddenly embarrassed. ¡°Not¡­quite, madam.¡±


    That made Katrina do a double-take. ¡°What do you mean not quite, Colonel? Are you not responsible for liberating that town, oath-bound even?¡±


    ¡°He is, and he could do just that¡­but not without civilian casualties.¡± Lieutenant Colonel Sanders cut in, much to her chagrin.


    ¡°And your marines could do better?¡± She spat out, recognizing her folly a moment later.


    ¡°Certainly.¡± Sanders nodded, turning to his second in command. ¡°Please show them, Major.¡±


    ¡°Madam and sirs, if you¡¯ll look at the hologram.¡±Major Kidd gestured to the center of the table, where a large holographic map of Jack¡¯s Point and the surrounding plains had appeared.


    Jack¡¯s Point was built on a hill in a former volcanic zone, which meant that the rebels had managed to entrench themselves easily. There was even a barbed wire fence with guard towers, meant to keep the nastiest of fauna away. Now the rebels were using it to defend themselves.


    ¡°Orbital and drone footage suggest the terrorists have managed to manufacture some heavy weapons using local production facilities, in secret. We¡¯ve seen heavy machine guns, sniper rifles, and even what appears to be rocket-propelled grenade launchers. Combine all that with the police arsenal -flechette rifles and light body armor- and you have a dangerous force capable of fighting against light mobile infantry like your national guard.¡±


    Katrina shook her head. ¡°It¡¯s a whole less lighter than your marines. I recall you don¡¯t keep vehicles as part of your standard inventory.¡±


    Sanders nodded. ¡°You¡¯d be correct, and if we were approaching the same way your people woud then yes, we would be at a comparable disadvantage. However, we won¡¯t be doing that.¡±


    The hologram shifted, showing a flight of shuttles flying over the town.


    ¡°I dare not say all my marines are well-trained for aerial insertion, but I have a platoon of men on loan from the 101st Marine-Raiders who are certifiable demons in any environment.¡±


    That made Kathrine flinch. She hadn¡¯t been informed of that deployment¡­though a quick glance at Colonel Sanders showed a man well-aware of it. Had she simply not been informed? It wasn¡¯t like she¡¯d been paying too much attention to the National Guard, with most funding going to the resource-hungry navy.


    Sanders continued without pausing.


    ¡°Lucifer Platoon will be dropped in via shuttle and descend using grav-chutes, gathering in squads to eliminate command and control units as well as heavy weapons emplacements. Disorganized and without heavy firepower, the insurgents will become easy pickings for the advancing national guard mobile companies.¡±


    ¡°Of course, this is but a plan. We need your approval to go and save this city. Do we have it?¡±


    ¡ª


    ¡°One minute.¡± The pilot¡¯s voice came crisp through the comm speakers.


    Curt acknowledgments rang out from the pair of squads that had been sitting inside the passenger compartment. Their usual kits had been enlarged to include the wing-like grav-chutes, and the shuttle¡¯s interior had gotten particularly tight.


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    Nineteen marines comprising two squads stood up from their seats as one, forming two neat lines in front of the cargo doors. There was little stress among the battle-harded troops; they¡¯d fought and won against much worse odds.


    This was hardly a hardy insurgency trained for years and supplied by state actors; it was a grassroots movement of anti-dynasty rebels who had made their weapons out of coolant pipes and mining explosives. The best-trained amongst them might¡¯ve gone on hunts with rifles before, but none had been even remotely related to the military or law enforcement


    ¡°Thirty seconds. Doors opening.¡±


    Red alarms lit up on both sides of the cargo door as it opened, air escaping as pressure equalized between inside and outside. The marines remained unmoving thanks to their magboots, though some chuckled or laughed as pre-battle made its way through their system.


    Air assaults were rare, as modern air defense systems rendered paradrops extremely lethal. It was good that the insurgents had none of that, apart from a heavy machinegun or two that was far too bulky to point straight up.


    ¡°Ten, nine, eight¡­four, three, two, one. Jump, jump, jump!¡±


    One pair after the other the marines jumped out of the shuttle, moving in sync with those dropping from the shuttle directly to their right. Two shuttles, four squads and forty marine-raiders raring for action.


    Both of Polaris¡¯s moons were out of phase, ensuring a dark landing. The insurgents used campfires and LED lamps to see, but the marines used a suite of night vision, thermal imaging and millimeter-wave radar to see in any environment.


    Sergeant Sylwester Goralski¡¯s voice came out smooth over the encrypted comnet, calling out to his squadmates.


    ¡°Bravo Squad, this is Bravo-1, fire team leaders check in.¡±


    ¡°This is Bravo-1-1, all marines accounted for.¡±


    ¡°This is Bravo-1-2, all hands on deck.¡±


    ¡°This is Bravo-1-3, all troopers accounted for.¡±


    Sylwester grunted in satisfaction at the prompt responses of his fire team leaders.


    ¡°Understood, team leaders. Proceed with the plan, and try not to shoot any civvies.¡±


    ¡­


    Sergeant Goralski stood in front of a holo-table, presenting the plan to the rest of Bravo Squad.


    ¡°We deploy chutes in fifteen seconds, landing in thirty. We¡¯re going for their headquarters.¡±


    ¡­


    ¡°Chutes.¡± Goralski ordered through the comm, suddenly feeling like one of the clouds was trying to lift him.


    His vision was laser-focused on the grey, drab town hall that the insurgents were using for command, control and propaganda. A square block of concrete with few windows and fewer decorations-


    ¡­


    -three stories tall and set at the very center of the town¡¯s grid layout.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be landing on the roof. Live drone feeds show a pair of snipers, one for each of the town gates. Our own sharpshooters will have to take them out during our descent.¡±


    ¡­


    His helmet¡¯s audio amplifiers barely picked up on the wizz of the subsonic flechettes. Guided by veteran sharpshooters supported by stabilized suits and ballistic computers, the rounds landed square on the enemies¡¯ heads.


    ¡­


    ¡°Our sharpshooters and heavy weapons specialists will set up firing positions along the roof, to cover the other squads¡¯ landings and deal with potential reinforcements. Meanwhile, fire teams one and two will proceed to make entry-¡±


    ¡­


    ¡°Here!¡± Goralski gestured to the padlocked door leading to the third floor.


    The pairs of sharpshooters and grenadiers set up beside the dead enemy snipers, setting the gored, unarmored bodies and cheap hunting rifles aside as they set up their own weapons. Instead of titanium-ceramic bodies and depleted uranium bullets, they carried weapons and ammunition standard for polarii guardsmen. Guns made of cheap aluminum bodies and loaded tungsten-core bullets.


    One of the troopers stepped forward, stabbing a cylinder with a key-shaped portusion into the lock. A few seconds of whirring later, the door unlocked and opened wide. The rest of the soldiers formed a line behind the first trooper, moving into the stairwell without speaking a word.


    ¡­


    ¡°Fire Team Two will secure the stairwell and provide fire support, while team one will clear out the rooms. Each floor we alternate to keep pace. We¡¯ll proceed floor by floor until we reach the ground floor, then secure the entrance and wait for the cavalry.¡±


    ¡°And remember; we¡¯re not here to liberate the town, just make the game easier for the national guard. If anybody asks who you are, evade the question. Hearing that the anti-imperialists got wasted by the very ¡®imperialists¡¯ they are fighting against is bad press no matter how the brass twists it.¡±


    ¡­


    ¡°Oi, d¡¯ya hear that?¡±


    ¡°Naw, what?¡±


    ¡°I swear, I heard somebody-¡±


    Turning around towards the stairs, the insurgent came face-to-face with the point man¡¯s rifle.


    THWACK THWACK


    Two ten-millimeter rounds later he was down a brain and a pair of lungs. His comrade didn¡¯t fair much better; he was dead before he even rose from his plastic chair.


    The marine-raiders spread out like sunset shadows, using their thermal imagers to fire at insurgents through wooden doors. It appeared the terrorists were using the topmost floor as some sort of barracks, sleeping bags and pillows covering the floor of what had been offices only the previous day.


    Some of the criminals were lucky enough to die in their sleep; others not so much.


    ¡°Third floor clear, proceed.¡± Goralski ordered, switcing out the magazine in his battle rifle for a fresh one. He was annoyed.


    Modern purpose-built CQBR rifles where light, internally suppressed and designed as a bullpup configuration to reduce size. Polarii guardsmen were issued significantly cheaper multipurpose rifles, which were bulkier, longer and heavier. Next time¡ª


    ¡°Contact!¡± The second team¡¯s corporal reported as the stairwell turned into a war zone. ¡°Throwing flashbang!¡±


    Screaming erupted from inside the second floor as the ill-trained and ill-equipped revolutionaries experienced the full force of a military-grade stun grenade.


    Team two stormed into the main corridor immediately after the detonation, putting rounds into anything that as much as twitched. Goralski saw men and women, dressed in puke-stained hunting gear, crawling against the floor like drunken pray. His troopers dolled out mercy by the magazine, though they were careful to scan each terrorist¡¯s face in case¡ª


    ¡°I got one!¡± One of the troopers announced, holding up a blond, pale-skinned woman by her hair.


    Goralski approached, using his helmet camera to scan the woman¡¯s face. Seconds later the result came back.


    Identification Confirmed: Maria Regan, deputy-chief councilor, Polarii Revolutionary Council.


    Grunting in pleasure, the sergeant immediately contacted his superiors.


    ¡°Lucifer Actual, this is Alpha-1. We¡¯ve found one of the VIPs, scratch her off the list.¡±


    <Copy, Alpha-1. Proceed with operation.>


    ¡ª


    Katrina stood war room hours later, feeling uniquely drained.


    She had just¡­sat there, watching as the akritans made a mockery of a well-organized, armed and fortified insurgency that had managed to fly under the radar of the nation¡¯s police and military. At no point during the operation had she given any order, merely providing verbal consent before the lieutenant colonel ordered Lucifer Platoon into the breach.


    The commandos and their entire support apparatus, from reconnaisance drones to orbiting warships and the marine commanders in the room with her, was entirely separate from the national guard¡¯s, and ultimately answered to the Duke, not her.


    It wasn¡¯t the outcome that bothered her, not at all. The insurgents¡¯ commanders were dead, their anti-vehicle munitions sabotaged. Polarii guardsmen were already streaming into the city under the cover of armored trucks; by dawn the town would be back under her rule.


    Neither had the means posed an issue. So what if a few dozen insurgents were dead with no chance at surrender? They¡¯d formed an armed rebellion to support fanciful ideology that promised everything and gave no evidence of success. Let them die, Polaris was better without them.


    Yet the fact the akritan dynasty, which was already fighting on one front against the leonian royalists, and supporting a nanscent nation in Nimbus, could devote the manpower and resources to maintain a garrison of marines and warships in a foreign planet¡¯s orbit¡­it made her afraid. Afraid because a sliver of the surviving forces of a noble house that had been decimated during war was better at dealing with insurgencies than the entire polarii military.


    In these past two years, she¡¯d relaxed. The Duke showed no sign of wanting to annex her planet, and instead formed deep economic, cultural and military bonds with the polarii people. Only now did Katrina realize that the sense of equality was false.


    Her economy was booming, but only because of the dynasty¡¯s massive hunger for raw materials and basic manufactured goods. Polariis around the globe had more food on the table than ever before, yet the percentage that originated from Polarii soil was a fraction of the years before.


    The nation had a military, a growing navy and national guard that kept it safe from invasion¡­yet it was trained and equipped by the very people Katrina wanted to remain independent of. She was certain that the officers running her military were firm believers in the Akritan-Polarii alliance, and would have her replaced on the spot if she as much as hinted at turning her nation towards isolationism.


    Which¡­she wouldn¡¯t.


    As much as the present horrified her, it was still good. More than good; life for the average polarii couldn¡¯t be better. Katrina was certain that most of that could be attributed to the dynasty¡¯s presence. Advanced factories, fertile farms. incredible productivity and R&D operations that her own team of top scientists gawked at. Hell, they¡¯d turned a lifeless iceball into a near-habitable world, and the sandy plains of Cradle Valley were already feeding over half of the system¡¯s population.


    Yes, Polaris was no longer an independent nation. She was no longer beholden to naught but herself and her people; the Duke¡¯s ¡®advice¡¯ could change legislation and drive change, moreso than hers had ever been able to.


    But maybe¡­maybe the price of independence was worth it.

 Chapter 20 - Breaking the chains

    With the royalist ships defeated and the republican cruiser sent home to deliver the offer, James and his forces were allowed to shift their attention to more pressing matters. It would take weeks, months even, before his dynasty officially joined the civil war, but the people of Nimbus needed help now.


    Before the battle, the system¡¯s penal colonies hadn¡¯t even noticed his fleet. That had been deliberate, so that the arriving task force wouldn¡¯t be warned by an alarmed garrison. Instead, having received the all clear by the colonial administration upon arrival, the royalist task force had lowered its guard and walked right into an ambush.


    Now, though, Nimbus knew about Task Force Dragon. James was willing to bet the firework show had caused quit a stir.


    Information lockdowns would go into place, certainly. Yet the penal workers would know something was up sooner or later, and somebody was bound to panic. Riots were a certainty, and deaths quick to follow on both sides. James was determined to prevent that.


    Testimonies from C3 showed that the guards were lightly armed and few in number, much like in any other semi-automated prison. Guards in riot gear might as well be invincible to a rioting inmate, but a train marine would crack them open like a pinata.


    ¡ª


    Rino Capano had been a penal worker on station cee-six for six years. For six years he¡¯d slept a maximum of six hours a cycle, eaten meals of synthetic protein and carbo-slurry, and worked back-breaking shifts drilling asteroids in a suit that should¡¯ve been thrown in the recycler before he was born.


    After spending years listening to the snakes talk about lavish rewards and early releases while shafting them with more shifts and worse food, he could read the signs. They were everywhere, so long as you could read them. In the intercomm announcements, the guards¡¯ faces, the tone of officers¡¯ voices and even the type of food that was served.


    And right now, all the signs were telling him something was profoundly wrong.


    Usually when you were treated strangely well, you were in for a shafting. Maybe they served juice along with dinner, or turned the heating on a degree or two higher. Good stuff, but never for too long. The happy times lasted minutes or hours.


    Certainly not days¡­expect now.


    It had been almost thirty-six hours since the quality of life jumped. Instead of a cool eighteen c it was twenty-two, and their meals were provided with little baggies of synthetic spices -the kind they dispersed on public holidays-. They were also shoving a shuttle¡¯s worth of bullshit down their throats, stuff like ¡®management is happy with your work¡¯ spoken on the intercom with eery tones of happiness faker than the fishbites they served every seventh day of the month.


    And everybody was waiting for the other show to drop. Life went on, dreary as always, but there was a certain anxiousness to everyone¡¯s actions.


    ¡­


    Rino had been in his bunk when the alarms rang.


    Not the riot alarms, with which he¡¯d grown familiar with. No, this was another kind of alarm that even the most hardened lifer was terrified of.


    Hull breach.


    A deep, groaning rumble passed through the entire station. Without a though he and his bunkmates jumped out of their beds, rushing to the plastic-covered red button next to their room¡¯s door labelled ¡®DO NOT PRESS¡¯.


    The man who¡¯d been sleeping bellow him flipped the cover, and Rino pressed it down with all his strength. The door of their room sealed shut without further warning, the servos pushing it with strength that had often been used to crushed fingers, arms and spines. This time, much to their horror, the auto-seal door was seeing actual use for what it had been designed.


    Seconds later the horror began.


    They saw the guard that had been patrolling their corridor get thrown from right to left, as the air rushing out of the breach dragged him along with unyielding strength. His face had been looking in the other direction, blessedly preventing them from seeing the horrified expression of a dying man.


    No other sounds came, yet they could feel the sealed room vibrate around them. It felt like an asteroid storm, the kind that killed entire mining crews in milliseconds, was peppering the entire station.Then the power went out. The strange whirr of the grav plates which they¡¯d all grown accustomed to faded entirely, and they started floating.


    ¡°Oh, stars, we¡¯re going to die aren¡¯t we?¡± The newest inmate mumbled, hyperventilating.


    In any other situation, Rino and the other two inmates would¡¯ve laughed in his face and thrown out the most wicked jokes they could muster. But the woman was likely telling the truth. Even if she was a softie -she¡¯d been dragged here for protesting or some other political ¡®crime¡¯- she knew what was happening.


    A hull breach could be fixed. The station¡¯s garrison had dealt with a few during its operaion. A few dozen or hundred prisoners would die, the breached section would be locked down and they¡¯d resume ¡®operations¡¯ in a few hours. But never before had they lost power. The lights, maybe. The doors, sure. But the gravitic plates were on an entirely different system, heavily shielded and treasured. Nobody messed with them, even in a riot. They could survive explosions, bullets, fire and acid; untold centuries of engineering had gone into making them as rugged and reliable as possible.


    The four inmates floated in silence, coming to terms with their impending doom.


    ¡°Man¡­I was up for release in six months.¡± The oldest of the bunch sighed.


    The youngest after Rino laughed, a subdued, half-forced noise. ¡°Nah, dude, they were never going to release you. I ain¡¯t heard of nobody leaving in months.¡±


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    ¡°Yeah, whatever.¡± The oldest shook his head. ¡°I was going to die one way or¡ª¡±


    They all paused, hearing a strange rumbling through the corridor.


    ¡°Footsteps?¡± The youngest mumbled.


    ¡°Magboots.¡± Rino corrected her. ¡°Heavy magboots, the kind the guards wear.¡±


    If there were guards here¡­Rino didn¡¯t know how to respond to that. They couldn¡¯t be here to save them, so what they hell were they doing?


    The inmates were incredibly curious, yet none approached the little armored window of the door. Being so close to the void without protection, even sitting behind an airlock, was a sport best left to those who no longer cared about death. So they simply floated in the back and sides of their room, waiting as the footsteps got closer and closer.


    Then heads started appearing. Men in some kind of armor passed through the corridor¡­walking upside down. Rino didn¡¯t get good look on the group as they passed, but they looked foreign.


    ¡°Not guards.¡± The oldest muttered, his voice low as a whisper.


    ¡°Who, if not them?¡± The youngest asked.


    ¡°Pirates?¡± The second youngest proposed. ¡°Raiders, maybe?¡±


    ¡°Why the hell would pirates attack us? There¡¯s nothing on the station except a thousand tons of bulk steel and nickel.¡± Rino countered. ¡°And how did they even get here? There¡¯s supposed to be defenses enough to thwart an entire fleet from attacking us, right?¡±


    Not one of them could answer his questions. Their knowledge came from rumours and propaganda, which was actually worse than not knowing anything at all. The kingdom could¡¯ve collapsed for all they knew; the garrison had a total control over what little information went in and out.


    Before anybody could say anything more, the mysterious armored figures reappeared. One of them, at least. This time they were looking right at them, though they could only see a shiny one-way visor peering down the armored window into their room. Nobody moved.


    After a few seconds, the person waved at them to come to him. Nobody did, and the person shook their head. One of their hands shifted, and they brought a PDA into view. With slow, deliberate thrusts they tapped their finger against its screen several times, and then shifted it so that they could look at the screen.


    Rino, is curiosity overtaking his fear, pushed against the wall behind him with his legs and floated towards the door. The writing on the tablet was shown in bold, clear letters.


    YOU ARE BEING LIBERATED. REMAIN CALM.


    ¡ª


    James stood over the battlemap on the flag bridge, along with Captain Noriega and Colonel Guerr, overlooking the rapid developments of Operation Jailbreak.


    The battlecruiser Vanguard¡¯s Hymn, along with a pair of destroyers, was cruising through the system¡¯s core where they could receive comms traffic from all marine units in the system the fastest.


    Every other warship of the squadron was supporting a marine insertion, disabling defenses and jamming communications between the penal colonies.


    Well, except one.


    The sole destroyer that had been hit, ANS Bete, was on its way back to Pollux and the shipyards of Bridgehead Station. It would carry messages of their victory, along with POWs and marching orders for the merchant marine. Several freighters and transport craft were needed, to bring in food, supplies and experienced doctors and engineers.


    Law enforcement, too. Governor Moore had presided over the reestablishment of a law enforcement agency. Many of its officers were still military police from the marine corps on loan, yet there were many recruits eager to join and the ducal police.


    Until local policing could be done by local law enforcement -which was currently being smashed by veteran marine units- law enforcement officers of the duchy would be shipped in on a temporary deployment basis lasting two to six standard months.


    ¡°Admiral.¡± Colonel Guerr called his attention.


    ¡°What do you have for me, colonel?¡± James asked, seeing the barest hint of a grin forming on the hardline loyalist¡¯s lips.


    ¡°We¡¯ve captured Station C6, sir. C4 and C5 aren¡¯t too far behind. I believe we¡¯ll have them all in hand within a t-day.¡±


    ¡ª


    Rino and his cellmates had stayed trapped inside their tin can for four hours. They would¡¯ve believed their ¡®liberators¡¯ to have forgotten about them entirely had they not had the wisdom to send a soldier every half-hour or so to check in with each cell.


    Three hours after they¡¯d sealed the door, power returned to their cell. The emergency battery-powered lights turned off, and the clinical bright lamps returned. Gravity too, which meant the new guy¡¯s vomit-cloud -an unfortunate side-effect of panic and long-term floating in zero gees- promptly splattered on to the floor.


    Four hours and five minutes in -measured accurately by virtue of the oldest inmate¡¯s mechanical watch- the breach was patched and atmosphere was pumped back in to the corridor.


    The doors remained locked, remotely, for a few minutes, soldiers passed by, one posted on each cell¡¯s door. Then they opened all at once.


    Visible in full, the mysterious soldiers-slash-liberators were truly terrifying. They wore thick power armor, standing two and a half meters tall. A mean-looking rifle sat on a maglock on the soldier¡¯s back, its barrel peaking out of their shoulder. A shock batton was attached to another maglock on their thigh.


    Then the one-way visor shifted, becoming transparent. Their mysterious soldier was a woman, looking profoundly tanned and visibly confident. Not the bumbling idiot¡¯s kind -like the station guards- but the kind of a veteran soldier or law enforcement officer¡¯s. Like Rino¡¯s mother.


    ¡°Do you understand my words?¡± She asked, her words echoed by more than a dozen other soldiers standing outside their neighbouring cells.


    ¡°Y-Yes.¡± The youngest of their group answered, the rest following up with cautious nods and grunts.


    The soldier smiled. ¡°Good. I¡¯m sure you¡¯re all curious, and everything will be explained shortly. For now, the most important thing you need to know is that this station has been liberated by the Akritan Dynasty.¡±


    ¡­


    There were hundreds of penal workers gathered in the cafeteria. Even the children -the precious few- had been brought out. The air was comfortably warm, and the ¡®akritan marines¡¯ were handing out ration bars and water. Rino had seen a handful of marines dressed lighter, carrying toolbags and escorted by animal-like robots. Doctors, or engineers. Nothing else made sense in such a situation.


    Rino¡¯s attention was immediately caught by one of the marines, who stepped on a table and took his helmet off. The whispers died down as he spoke.


    ¡°Hello, everyone. May I have your attention, please?¡±


    You could hear a pin drop in the room, even packed as it were with several hundred people.


    ¡°Thank you. I¡¯m going to have to ask you all to keep your questions to yourselves for the next few minutes, so I can explain some things quickly.¡±


    Seeing no complaints, the man continued.


    ¡°My name is Victor Steele, and I am the commanding officer of the marine unit that was tasked with liberating this station.¡±


    Rino memorized the man¡¯s name.


    ¡°Many among are wondering why. You can thank your comrades from station cee-six.¡±


    C6? What was so special about C6?


    Steele looked around for a moment, sighing. ¡°I see that you are unaware of their actions. In short, several months ago the majority of penal workers on C6 managed to escape by taking over several mining barges.¡±


    Mumbling erupted from everywhere, but Steele pushed through.


    ¡°They were chased by warships of the Royal Leonian Guard Corps, as they fled to the nearby star system of Pollux. They were promptly placed under the protection of local Akritan Navy ships, and a short exchange resulted in the guard corps¡¯ complete defeat.¡±


    Rino was speechless. The sixers had managed to escape¡­and the guards had managed to keep that a secret? Starshit¡­


    ¡°I promised to keep this short, and I will.¡± Steele continued. ¡°The Akritan Dynasty is at war with the Kingdom of Leonis. Or, at least, a part of it. It is an unfortunate fact of your position that none of you were informed; The kingdom is currently in the middle of a civil war, and you were under the control of the ugly side.¡±

 Interlude 2.4 - Welcome Home

    The 101st Marine-Raider Regiment was the best of the best, no doubts about it.  Such was needed to execute the most important of missions; the protection of the sovereign and the dynasty.


    Yet there were other important roles, ones that the rest Akritan Marine Corps wasn¡¯t responsible for and which required the formation of specialized units.


    One such specialized unit was the 109th, made up entire of Domus Pupili graduates.  Unlike their comrades in the 101st, they were hardly crack troops or shock infantry. No, they served a much more tame yet undeniably important role.


    Protection for the Domus Pupili.


    ¡­


    He stepped off the gangway and unto the hangar¡¯s deck, followed by the rest of his squad.  There was no time to wait; a man in caretaker uniform approached them immediately with a smile on his face.


    ¡°You are on assistance duty, yes?¡±


    ¡°Correct, sir. Where do you need us?¡± The sergeant asked, scanning the hangar.


    Busy, as expected. Shuttlecraft waited only minutes, unloading supplies and loading personnel. Unlike the rest of the stations, C5 had seen actual fighting. The local garrison had been conducted a rare counter-riot exercise when the marines breached.


    Marine casualties had been few, but the ill-trained guard had responded erratically with lethal munitions and concentrated riot-control gas. Many of the penal workers had been injured, some had died, and a non-insignificant number of children had been left orphaned.


    A standard case for the Domus Pupili, whose caretakers had accrued a wealth of experience due to the Vogdi¡¯s brutality.


    ¡°The advance team managed to gathered the kiddos in the first rooms to be decontaminated. A dozen or so were flown out to navy ships for emergency treatment , but the rest are still here. Here¡¯s your list; follow me.¡±


    The sergeant received the piece of paper with respect, as one ought to. His duty was protecting lives, young lives, and this paper told him exactly who his charges were for the next few hours.


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    Some on the list only had the barest information, while others were fully cataloged. The process took time, and resources were finite even for the most important institution of the dynasty. All had at least a picture, a first name and a unique identifier linked to their genetic information. That much was expected even the most terrible conditions, and the sergeant had seen far greater horrors during the final years of the war.


    The lieutenant and his squad followed the caretaker without another word, through battle-scarred hallways and armored gates jammed open or blown off their hinges.


    ¡°It looks like a prison.¡± One of his squadmates muttered.


    ¡°Because it is a prison.¡± Another noted, disgust evident in his tone.


    ¡°With children in it. Children, for stars¡¯ sake.¡± A third added, his words seeped in rage.


    The sergeant said nothing, though he agreed with all of them. Penal labor camps were a dark, if somewhat acceptable decision. Hardly a taboo, though that could change depending on the conditions. The mere memory of liberating a Vogdi gulag made him seethe; it had taken all his will to not order the gulag guards¡¯ execution by the very gas with which they¡¯d been¡­liquidating the prisoners. The camp''s commander, the very monster who''d ordered that no prisoners were to fall into akritan hands, he''d certainly...well, there were some things the Duke''s Own didn''t talk about.


    But the presence of children¡­the punishment of children for the crimes of their parents, that was against everything he and his men stood for. Everything the Domus Pupili stood for.


    ¡°Here we are.¡± The caretaker said, gesturing to an open door.


    In an instant, his and his men¡¯s expressions and body language shifted. They put on warm smiles and checked their soft-colored uniforms for their kit.


    Unlike those of crack troops like the 101st, whose normal kits contained every tool of war a marine could dream of from bayonets to breaching charges, their own was remarkably differently.;Candy and juice pouches pouches instead of ammunition and greandes. Animal stickers and markers in leu of bayonets and heavy weapons.


    For they were not implements of war and death, but life and joy. They were parents, guardians, friends and family for those that had none.


    As the sergeant and his men entered the room, they found a dozen children playing a playing inside the room with toy dolls, and space racers, or reading through picture books. Some were as young as four, others just barely prepubescent. They were all different, though they all shared one common trait; they had been orphans¡­until now.


    ¡°Children, may I have your attention please?¡± The caretaker called in a soft voice, and the children turned to look towards the doorway as one.


    ¡°Who are they, Mister?¡± One brave girl asked, holding a picture book about planets in her lap.


    It was the sergeant that spoke, his lips breaking into a warm smile. ¡°I¡¯m Mike, and these are my friends. We¡¯re here to take you guys home.¡±

 Chapter 21 - I serve at his pleasure

    When he was a teenager on Solomon, Luka Belloti had wanted to become a firefighter. His father had been one, and his mother had encouraged him to follow his dreams. He¡¯d volunteered in his local fire station as a helper, and the local firefighters had assured him he would make a great fit.


    Unfortunately, the kingdom robbed him of that dream.


    He¡¯d been a penal miner for more than a decade, breaking up asteroids using equipment older than himself and returning ¡®home¡¯ to a cell-like room and food even pets wouldn¡¯t eat. That would¡¯ve probably been all he would have in life, had he and his comrades not managed to escape.


    During his imprisonment, he¡¯d dreamed of going back home and finally becoming a fireman. Maybe he¡¯d rescue some pretty woman out of a fire, like in the holos, and then have some wonderful children who he¡¯d take to the low-g amusement park on his days off.


    Now he was a free man¡­and a miner once more.


    Many would think he¡¯d been forced to go back to mining by the resouce-hungry akritan dynasty, or simply joined the trade he¡¯d learned over the years. The first was false, and the second hardly played a role. Luka had no problems with mining itself; it was the living and working conditions that gave him nightmares on some nights.


    When the Duke gave him and the other captains of the refugee ships -a funny title, even now- the chance to run their own mining company, Luka had almost rejected it. He wanted to help people, not run a business.


    The declaration of war had changed his mind. The dynasty was now on the warpath against his former oppressors, and for that they resources; ships, missiles, bullets and rifles. Luka realized that he could do much more for his people mining the raw materials those would be made from than rescuing victims of fire on Domusec.


    Accepting the offer had been easy, and finding a crew simple. He grabbed those among the work crews he knew and trusted, and they brought along their own buddies and friends. It wasn¡¯t exactly a professional affair, but within a few days Haven Mining Incorporated was born.


    While their mining barge underwent repairs in Bridgehead¡¯s dockyards, the three hundred and fifty miners underwent retraining with their new gear at the hands of akritan colleagues from Valeria Mining. While the ¡®front-liners¡¯ trained, Luka and his cadre of ¡®officers¡¯ were assisted by dynasty representatives in setting up the more sophisticated aspects of running a company.


    Honoring their deal, the dynasty paid a non-insignificant sum hiring lawyers, accountants and experienced merchant marine officers and ratings, to run the ship and train their replacements from among his people.


    Within a month, the AMS Rough Diamond left the dockyards under its own propulson, and HMI truly began operations.


    ¡­


    In the following months, the refugees of C3 integrated into the akritan economy and society. None were left without work, absorbed into the ever-growing industries around Bridgehead Station and Domusec.


    Industrial growth had already been great before the refugees arrived, and with the declaration of war came greater need for military goods. The ¡®tra became miners, dockworkers and factory techs. Many, who¡¯d missed the planetary enviroment, moved along with their families to Domusec to join the growing agricultural industry.


    While many feared alienation as the minority, they were proven wrong. The ten years¡¯ war with the Vogdi had driven many refugees into the arms of the Akritan Dynasty, which immediately integrated them into the war economy.


    Nothing was perfect, unfortunately.


    The abysmal education infrastructure of the penal colonies meant that almost all children -who¡¯d spent their entire lives ¡®in prison¡¯- had difficulties adapting to the meritocratic educational system. More schools were being built, and special integration programs were coming into effect. Alas, it would take time.


    Thankfully, those with secondary or even just primary education among the adult population found job-hunting easy. Companies were quick to rush prospective workers into technical schools and training courses that would teach them the core aspects of their work. With veteran techs on top of them, accidents would be kept at a minimum and they could be trained on-the-job.


    Exceptions, however, were a certainty. Everybody was tested on a standard IQ test, with the top performers sent on fast-track educational programms that arm them with the knowledge to become doctors, engineers and scientists.


    ¡­


    Luka stepped off the gangway, unto the dockyard and into the arms of Amy. Smiling, he swooped in for a sweet kiss.


    ¡°Excited much, are we?¡± The beautiful redhead chuckled, blushing.


    ¡°Just happy to see you.¡± He enveloped her into a hug.


    The pair quickly walked away from the dock, letting the ¡®ground crew¡¯ manage unloading the Rough Diamond. The ship and its crew of miners and techs had just come back from the Inner Belt, where they¡¯d spent five days breaking rocks in the company of several other mining vessels and patrol ships.


    After fifteen years in the shitter, Luka¡¯s life was on the up. The company was doing well, work was easy, and above all he had found himself a girlfriend. Or more like she¡¯d found him. He thanked his lucky stars for that, because they knew his ability to flirt was worse than an asteroid¡¯s.


    The Rough Diamond spent five days a week, three weeks a month out in the belt. The rest was spent in the docks, while its crew rested, spent time with their families and went about their education. By Luka¡¯s standards the schedule was absolutely amazing, and the average miner¡¯s was hardly worse. Ten hours¡¯ work a day for fifteen days a month, with short leave on the weekends and every last week of the month off.


    Today was the beginning of one such week, and Luka had made plans for the entirety of the next seven days. On the weekdays he¡¯d signed up for evening school along with many of the other nimbians, so he could finish his highschool education. Math was necessary for his job, which he wanted to get better at, and everything else was mostly interesting. And on the weekend¡­


    ¡°You have your weekend off, right?¡± He asked Amy, tensing up.


    ¡°Mhm.¡± She nodded with that heart-warming smile of hers. ¡°You want to spend it at my place?¡±


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡°Actually¡­I was thinking of something more interesting.¡± He slowed down, pulling out two shiny tickets from his jacket.


    Hardcopy tickets were a novelty, and shipping them from the tour company¡¯s offices on Domusec via express mail to the Rough Diamond had been a pain in the ass¡­but the look in Amy¡¯s eyes made in all worth it.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t¡­¡± She mumbled, taking them in her hands.


    ¡°Oh, but I did.¡± He chuckled. ¡°Two tickets for a weekend safari on Domusec, all¡ª¡±


    He didn¡¯t get to finish, Amy jumping on him with tears of happiness.


    ¡ª


    Halfway into the week, Luka was woken up by banging on the door of his apartment. The clock read four in the morning, which meant he¡¯d slept little more than three. There was a math test in two days and the former penal worker and mining company CEO was feeling his brain turn into mush. As much as he loved his newfound home, sometimes he wished the education system was just a bit laxer.


    ¡°Who is it?¡± He asked, putting on a pair of pants and his slippers.


    ¡°It¡¯s Jim, mate, open up! You need to hear this, now!¡± A male voice shouted.


    Luka rushed to the door, opening it to reveal the face of one of his fellow captains. He hadn¡¯t known Jim all that well before the escape, but in the months since they¡¯d grown into friends. It helped that both were in the same class in evening school -the class all ¡®captains¡¯ were sent to- and they both sucked at math.


    ¡°What¡¯s up, mate?¡± Luka asked, seeing an absolutely shaken Jim. Here was a man in his late twenties, who¡¯d served nearly a decade in hard labor, and he looked ready to explode with shock.


    ¡°It¡¯s all over the news.¡± Jim walked into his apartment. ¡°The invasion was a success!¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, man! They liberated the system, all of it! The Duke himself was commanding the fleet, and they kicked some serious royalist ass!¡±


    ¡­


    The day went by without Luke even realizing it, still profoundly shaken by the news. The entire station was. For the akritans, it the first in what was hoped to be a long line of victories. To the nimbians, it was so much more.


    He himself had expected the liberation to take years. That¡¯s what he was taught during his teenage years about space combat, in history class; wars were grinding slow processes of attrition where he who lasted even a second longer claimed total victory. The fleet had only departed two weeks ago, and yet in that short timespan an entire system had been liberated from royalist oppression.


    It was the joy of such an occasion that drove him to Amy¡¯s apartment that evening.


    The pleasure was mutual¡­but rudely interrupted.


    Luka had just walked out of the shower when the door bell rang. He moved into the bedroom and looked for some clothes to put on while his girlfriend, already dressed, answered the door. Seconds later, he heard her voice.


    ¡°Babe¡­it¡¯s the police. They are here for you.¡± She said, sounding nervous.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be out in a sec, let me get some pants on.¡± He replied, putting on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.


    Walking out, he saw four men and women in black suits standing just outside the apartment while Amy stood just inside, shifting between staring at them and him.


    ¡°Is something wrong, officers?¡±


    ¡°No, Mr. Belloti, though this is a rather¡­confidential matter.¡± The closest of the four answered, staring pointedly at Amy.


    ¡°She can listen to whatever this is, I¡¯m not holding any secrets from her. Come in, and close the door.¡± He gestured for them to come inside.


    As the door clicked closed, the lead officer pulled out a strange ID badge from his uniform.


    ¡°Mr. Belloti, I¡¯m senior special agent Horus Blacke, state bureau of investigation.¡± The man said, raising his palm. ¡°Believe me when I say you and your loved ones are not under investigation, arrest or suspicion of crime. Right now I¡¯m simply convenient go-between.¡± The special agent said with a bitter smile.


    ¡°Go-between for whom?¡± Luka asked.


    ¡°His Grace, Duke James Akrites.¡±


    ¡­


    It took minutes for Luka to get dressed once everything had been explained to them. The four SBI agents whisked him off to the authorized-only section of the ring, where a shuttle was waiting for them.


    The trip to Domusec was short, and silent. Luka had nothing to say to the agents, his mind struggling to grasp the offer. Why had the duke chose him? Why not some other, more competent guy? Surely there were individuals trained for specifically this role by the dynasty.


    Whatever the truth may be, he didn¡¯t know. He was just a businessman, an ex-penal worker earning a fair day¡¯s wage for a fair day¡¯s work.


    Arriving on Domusec, he was put in a waiting armored car and sent straight to Governor House, in  the administrative district of ever-growing Cradleton. There was no pomp, no ceremony and certainly no smiling; there was a distinct difference between the dynasty¡¯s core and the rest of the duchy.


    At last, almost two hours after leaving Amy¡¯s apartment, Luka arrived at the office of Governor Moore in the suit he usually wore on business meetings. The thing was itchy as always, hardly contributing to his shaken mood.


    ¡°Mr. Belloti, please take a seat.¡± Governor Moore said without preamble, urging him to take a seat in front of the wooden desk.


    There was not a hint of humor on the governor¡¯s face. Luka had never met the man before, but he felt stone-cold expression was due to his own presencee.


    ¡°I believe you¡¯ve already been told what you are here for.¡±


    ¡°I have.¡± Luka nodded.


    The governor nodded, picking up a thin disk from one of his desk¡¯s drawers. Pushing it ever so gently towards Luka, he pressed a button. ¡°This message was sent from Nimbus aboard the ANS Bete.  Recorded by the Duke himself, for you.¡±


    Without warning, a full-color hologram materialized over the disk. A holographic projector, Luka realized. Duke Akrites looked just like the day he¡¯d met him almost a year ago, smiling ever so slightly and looking absolutely unyielding,


    ¡°Mr. Belloti, I hope this message finds you well. Not too well, however, because I have an offer for you. I doubt you care much about honor, and I don¡¯t care much for pleasantries and ceremony, so let¡¯s get straight to the facts.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve liberated Nimbus. As of this recording, all penal colonies in the system are under marine occupation with minimal casualties.¡±


    Despite knowing it, hearing the fact from the man himself made Luka¡¯s breath hitch.


    ¡°You might be wondering what I have planned for the future of the system. The are plans in motion, but you as a civilian are not privy to them. However, you would be¡­if you were to accept the position of Governor.¡±


    Despite the fact it was only a hologram, Luka wanted to argue.


    ¡°Yes, there are other men who might be more capable than you. Good, experienced administrators whose loyalty is unshakable. But the local population requires special handling by men and women who have experienced life as a penal worker. The list is rather short, and you¡¯re the first name on it. Refuse, and you can go back to whatever life you¡¯ve managed to build knowing that somebody else replaced you. Accept, and be the first to witness as your system joins my dynasty. You will receive all the assistance you need in managing the finer details¡±


    Luka stood frozen, staring blankly at the frozen hologram. After a minute of silence, he shook his head and moved to get up. ¡°Thank you for this offer, really, but I¡¯ve got a¡ª¡±


    The governor chuckled, the smile never reaching his eyes. ¡°Oh, her. We know.¡± He pressed another button on the holo-display disk. ¡°His Gracy believed such an eventuality was likely, so he recorded this additional piece.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Belloti, in case you¡¯ve found somebody you¡¯ve become rather fond of, you have my heartfelt congradulations. Rest assured that Governor Moore and the Office of Employment will do their best to find a suitable posting.¡±


    As the recording ended, Governor Moore pushed a file forward. Opening it, Luka found a¡­profile of Amy. The sight made his hairs stand up, leaving him stunned. They knew¡­everything. Things even he didn¡¯t know.


    ¡°I¡ª¡± His words were cut short, the governor giving him no time to speak.


    ¡°Ms. Vickers is a nurse by trade, with multiple years of experience. The provisional government of Nimbus will require a dedicated medical staff in excess of what is already available according to most recent reports.¡±


    ¡°How did you even¡ª¡±


    ¡°Mister Belloti.¡± Moore paused, wearing a knowing smile. ¡°Please do not insult the abilities of the Dynasty¡¯s security services. They are more than capable of gathering a person¡¯s work experience and family status.¡±


    Luka didn¡¯t even know how to respond.


    ¡°Anyhow, Ms. Vickers has no immediate family or dependents aside from you, which makes her an excellent candidate for long-term deployments outside the Pollux system. Rest assured, we can certainly find a well-compensated and secure post for her to work at.¡±


    ¡°I¡­I see.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Moore nodded. ¡°Now, do you accept His Grace¡¯s offer?¡±


    Luka wasn¡¯t the smartest man, but he was smart enough to realize he didn¡¯t have a choice in the matter.


    ¡°I¡­serve at His Grace¡¯s pleasure.¡±

 What a wonderful day!

    As everyone who''s read the latest chapter knows, I am on a temporary and planned hiatus from January 10th to February 10th.


    This is an unfortunate sacrifice I''ve had to make to cope with university, but it doesn''t mean I haven''t been checking the numbers and doing some rough drafts every other day.


    About half an hour ago I was notified by another Royal Road Author about a pretty big event:


    We breached Rising Stars!


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Yeah baby, let''s go!


    I never expected to actually reach RS''s main page. It''s long been dominated by established authors that go to great lengths to plan out releases supported by a media blitz and insane release schedules that I doubt I will ever match. But we did it, and that''s what matters.


    We writers practically feed on recognition, aside from copious amounts of junk food and a reading addiction more expensive than Ol'' Colombian. So this had been a nice treat during a pretty crappy period that many of you might have or might be experiencing (midterms), and I''m glad for every single one of you reading, rating, following and reviewing my writing.


    In any case, this does not change the schedule. The hiatus will end on February 10th, from which point onwards we will continue with the normal M/F schedule.


    Thanks for reading and supporting me, and cheers!


    Ian Jager

 Chapter 22 - Freedom aint Free

    System-wide food prices jump! Over the last week, shoppers throughout the Polaris system were greeted by price hikes. The average household paid some 3% more, ending a months-long drop that followed the opening of large farms on Domusec.


    These changes did not come as a shock, as spokespersons for the Akritan Dynasty warned economists beforehand that many exports would be sent to the ailing former penal colonies of neighboring Nimbus.


    Nevertheless, sentiments remain high among polarii consumers, and not without reason. The median family is spending some 19% less of its monthly income on common household goods and staple foods compared to two cycles ago, thanks to reliable food cultivation on Domusec and a wave of local factory openings aided by akritan investment.


    Aurora Tribune


    ¡ª


    To say that Rino¡¯s life had changed much in the last two months was an understatement.


    Just forty days ago, he¡¯d been a penal worker cracking rocks fourteen hours a day and eating watery stew for morning, lunch and breakfast. He slept a maximum of six hours a day, in a fifteen square meter cell with three cellmates, and showered in icy water twice a week using a hundred-gram bar of soap that was supposed to last him a month.


    A month ago, marines of the Akritan Dynasty liberated the penal station. The following week was the most chaotic in his life, as their new ¡®masters¡¯ overhauled the leonian prison system.


    Mining work stopped immediately, though the new administration maintained a list of voluntary in-station jobs in exchange for access to additional luxury goods like after-shave, sweets, spices and condoms. Additional, because these were already provided. For the next two weeks, each prisoner was given a number of credits that they could spend on such goods.


    The former penal workers had never been happier, though that wasn¡¯t even the highlight.


    The biggest difference came in the form of food, with changes happening every few days. That first week, the watery and tasteless grub dissapeared. They were served military food, first pre-packaged and then cooked in the kitchens using equipment brought in from outside.


    Rino had seen few prisoners cry in these past few years, but when they were served beef steak, eggs and chocolate cake on the very first day of the week, the entire station was in tears. Some of the ¡®inmates¡¯ here were just children, born to cellmate parents and never knowing food outside of the tasteless grub.


    The akritans could¡¯ve asked them to work sixteen hour shifts then and there, and they all would¡¯ve accepted.


    But that wasn¡¯t it.


    Within that week, they were all interviewed. The akritans asked about their education, the life they left behind and, most importantly, the crime they were sentenced for.


    By next week, over a fourth of the former inmates were shipped off. Not random people, but those that had commited the really ugly crimes. Murder, rape, drug and organ trafficking. Rino was glad to see those off.


    According to the daily announcements, a portion of the penal stations was going to continue with its original role, albeit in a singificantly lighter capacity. The details hadn¡¯t really concerned Rino, who had been more busy coping with his changing enviroment. The scum he¡¯d have to share air with were better used as recycler feedstock.


    One of the biggest changes was in their quarters.


    A week ago, the akritan administration announced the arrival of several ¡®city ships¡¯. These were retrofitted cruise liners and passenger ships, made to house populations for the longterm and act as places of work. They asked for all former prisoners to apply for housing, which was described as significantly better.


    Spots were limited; maybe half of all remaining non-violent inmates could be housed.


    Families went first, along with single mothers and the elderly. Then those with significant education, as well as a rumoured handful of ¡®probationary citizens¡¯ who¡¯d helped the liberating marines during the fighting.


    The oldest of his cellmates was allowed on account of his age and back injuries, and the youngest due to her university education in applied mathematics. Real smart cookie, that one; she¡¯d been arrested for financial fraud after sneaking a few dozen million lira out of some industrialist¡¯s accounts.


    Rino and the second-youngest were out of luck. Neither of them had finished their secondary education, and they were both able-bodied adults.


    The station¡¯s population halved within the week. The air felt fresher, and the corridors were less crowded. The remaining ex-laborers lived in pairs, and their living conditions got better by the day.


    ¡­


    Rino had just come back from a shift in the mines. He and his group had gathered in the cafeteria, greedily munching on a spicy dish of fish and vegetables. Many men had chuckled at the sight, remembering how they¡¯d avoided fish with a vengeance as children back before their arrests.


    The characteristic tone of the PA system caught them all by surprise.


    <Attention. This is a class two announcement.>


    They all looked at each other, shrugging. Not an accident or critical emergency, but you didn¡¯t want to miss out on whatever the announcer was about to say. Last time a class two had occured, the Duke had announced a unilateral reduction of work hours and mandatory quotas.


    <Attention. Please look towards the nearest tele-screen or networked holo-display for further information. I repeat, this is a class two announcement.>


    The entire cantina was now paying rapt attention to the biggest screen, which was usually playing some canned teleseries or the news -the later being a much more recent addition-.


    Instead of a news anchor or actor however, they were met by an entirely unfamiliar face. A clean-shaven young man, dressed in a simple grey t-shirt embroidered with a ring six golden stars. He stood on a metal podium, leaning in to speak into the microphone.


    ¡°My compatriots.¡± He spoke, his voice a measured baritone. ¡°Little over a month ago, we were prisoners. ¡®Penal laborers¡¯, our jailors called us.¡± He chucled. ¡°In truth, we were slaves. Thankless cogs forced to turn until we turned to dust.¡±


    ¡°No more. No more are we going to mine the steel that goes into our oppressors¡¯ guns. Thirty days ago, the valiant troopers of the Akritan Marine Corps liberated us, in body and mind. Thirty days ago, we found out that the nation we¡¯d been born to was¡­no more.¡±


    Somebody from Rino¡¯s table mumbled in agreement, only to be shushed into silence by the rest.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°The Leonian Kingdom is dead. Has been dead, for over a year. Our jailors failed to mention that.¡± The man smiled bitterly. ¡°Instead, they drove us harder. The fruits of our labor went straight into the grinder of a civil war that has torn our former homeland into pieces.¡±


    Beads of sweat formed on the man¡¯s forehead, but he continued.


    ¡°We are free, ladies and gentlemen.¡±


    What cheers and smiles might¡¯ve sparked from his words were grounded by his next words.


    ¡°Yet freedom is a burden of its own. We live in cramped space stations, surviving off fragile technology that cleans the air in our lungs and recycles our food and water. In such an enviroment, man cannot survive on his own. Right now, our greatest resource as a people is each other. Every man, woman and child in every station and ship is critical to our survival. From the hygiene staff making sure the air filters are clean to the technicians keeping the lights on and the cooks keeping our bellies full. Yet without proper organization, these links are fragile. So we¡¯ll be changing that.¡±


    Mutters erupted around the room at his words.


    ¡°Yesterday, ladies and gentlemen, we were a people. Today, we are a nation.¡±


    A flag unfurled in the background. A red circle, just like the Nimbus Star, surrounded by a crown of six silver stars.


    ¡°Our masters dragged us from our home, robbed us of our future, turned us into slaves. Half our former nation abandonned us, and other half turned us into a weapons factory running on leaky suits and runny gruel. And I say, ladies and gentlemen, no more!¡±


    ¡°I, Governor Luka Belloti, hereby declare the founding of the Nimbian Free State, on behalf of every man, woman and child to have lived and died in these stations.¡±


    ¡ª


    Rino had gone straight to the public assistance center, by security and volunteers. He wasn¡¯t the only one who wanted questions. It looked like half the station had gotten there just before him, and the other half right after him.


    Securing his spot in the line, he listened in on the conversation at the very front of the que.


    ¡°Whadya mean I ain¡¯t no citizen! We a nation or what?¡± A woman shouted at the secman in the booth, who looked only somewhat more in the ¡®know¡¯ than the rest of them.


    ¡°We are, ma¡¯am. But considering the, uh, unique situation of its founding, most people just can¡¯t be declared citizens on the spot.¡± He explained as calmly as he could manage.


    ¡°So what? Ya gon kick me out?¡± The woman asked. ¡°Take away my food and shove me back in another four-by-four with three other sods?¡±


    The atmosphere seemed to instantly cool at her words. Nobody wanted a return to the previous¡­status quo. If the leaders of the Free State wanted to profit from cheap labor just like the royalists, there would be revolts on every station.


    ¡°Of course not!¡± The secman rebutted, squinting at her. ¡°Are you daft, lady? As I said before, you¡¯ve lost no priviliges or rights. And it¡¯ll keep getting better every day. Even better, when you get your citizenship.¡±


    The woman stuttered, huffing and puffing for long seconds before storming off.


    ¡°Insufferable moron¡­next!¡±


    ¡­


    By the time Rino¡¯s turn had come, the rowdy atmosphere had calmed down. He got to one of the front desks, manned by one of the volunteers. He¡¯d seen the short woman around before, though he couldn¡¯t point out a face.


    ¡°H-Hi.¡± He mumbled. ¡°I¡¯m supposed to get new papers?¡±


    The volunteer nodded eagerly. She seemed so much younger than him¡­barely in her twenties, she must¡¯ve been.


    ¡°Correct. As a probationary citizen of the Lunar Free State, you are entitled to a type B identification card and a passport. Here¡¯s mine for example; I just got them issued an hour ago.¡±


    The ID card was laminated paper strip with a microchip attached, showing a mugshot of the woman and a series of data like her name and date of birth. The passport wasn¡¯t much different, save for the thicker binding and the number of empty pages for stamps and seals.


    ¡°Is it just¡­paper?¡± Rino asked.


    He had never seen a passport before in his life. In-system travel was already extremely expensive; only the richest could afford interstellar trips to other major polities.


    ¡°No, there are a lot of other nifty features on it.¡± The volunteer shook her head. ¡°Wireless verification chips containing biometric information like fingerprints and DNA data. A lot, lot of anti-tamper and anti-counterfeighting measures. But this paper is hard to change on its own.¡±


    Picking up a nearby pen, she flipped her passport to an empty page and tried to write on it. The liquid ink just¡­slid right off.


    ¡°You need a very special seal or stamp tool to write on this. The paper is fire-proof, heat-proof, incredibly hard to scratch and almost impossible to tear. So you can be sure that this thing will accompany you if you have to leave. Now, how about we get your details from the database and take a nice picture?¡±


    The process was swift; in just half an hour Rino had the two most important pieces of paper ever issued about him in hand, holding on to them with the gentle firmness of a mother holding on to her child. He still remembered the trouble his parents had gotten into after losing his birth certificate, and was quite happy to not experience a repeat.


    As he was about to leave, the volunteer stopped him.


    ¡°Here you go.¡± She handed him a pamphlet.


    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± He asked, looking at the cover.


    ¡°All the ways you can expedite your path to citizenship.¡± The volunteer said. ¡°While all probationary citizens will receive full citizenship after three full cycles without doing anything, filling certain criteria can speed that up. For example, volunteer work can shorten your term to just one and a half cycles, while working one more hour per day in select roles shortens it by two.¡±


    Looking over what was sure to be the woman¡¯s next few talking points, Rino replied. ¡°Thank you very much. Good evening, miss.¡±


    ¡­


    ¡°I think I¡¯m going to pick up those extra hours¡± His roomate, Luigi, said as they sat at the bar drinking alkbrew.


    ¡°What, so you can get a fancier stamp on your ID card in a year?¡± One of the other patrons laughed at him.


    ¡°It¡¯s the economy, stupid.¡± Luigi replied. ¡°You can keep your eight hour shift, and retire at seventy. Meanwhile I¡¯ll have retired at sixty four.¡± He paused, scanning his surroundings


    ¡°It¡¯s no longer prison, whatever we all feel while mining asteroids. And the state won¡¯t keep taking care of us. I give it six months to a cycle before we start worrying about wages, taxes, rent and bills. We¡¯re on life support because the Governor and the Duke are trying to turn prisons into cities and construction is taking its sweet time.¡±


    ¡°Bah, I¡¯ll keep my sanity. I¡¯d rather work six years longer and never work more than eight hours a shift again than do double-digit shifts for another year.¡±


    The arguement fractured into half a dozen different conversations as the half-drunk bar patrons argued the finer points of the naturalization policy. Rino kept to himself, thinking back on what he¡¯d read on the pamphlet.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to head to bed early, luigi. Don¡¯t get too shitfaced without me.¡± He suddenly said, standing up and leaving a couple of credits to the barkeep for his drink.


    ¡°O-Ok, man. See you tomorrow.¡±


    ¡­


    Two days later


    Rino watched as the man ahead of him was cleared through, walking into the rear ramp of the blocky shuttle with a duffle bag slung behind his shoulders. His eyes wandered to the freshly-stenciled advertisement behind the shuttlecraft.


    A marine clad in full carapace armor stood in front of a mother and her children, sparks erupting around them as his armor deflected the oncoming gunfire.


    SERVICE GUARRANTEES CITIZENSHIP


    ¡°Your papers.¡± The marine demanded without so much as an extra glance.


    ¡°Here you go, sir.¡± He replied, handing over the plastic folder he¡¯d clutched tight during his walk over from his former cell.


    His roomate was still at work, doing an extra shift, and by the time that was over Rino would be long gone. He¡¯d left the man all his gathered credits, as well as a nice pair of boots he¡¯d bought a week ago. The marines would take care of all his needs for the next half decade.


    The grizzled sergeant sized him up for the barest of a moment, comparing what was written inside his file to whatever data he had on his dataslate. Then he grunted, seemingly satisfied with the paperwork.


    ¡°You¡¯re cleared. Head inside the shuttle behind me, stow your bag and strap in.¡±


    Doing as asked without a word, Rino headed inside and sat down in a vacant seat. The shuttle filled to three quarters, and then another marine stepped inside. The scarred trooper looked at each of the men and women gathered with an appraising gaze.


    ¡°If any of you are getting cold feet, grab your bags and go. You have ten seconds.¡±


    As the seconds passed, he smirked. ¡°No takers? Good.¡±


    The shuttle¡¯s engine spooled up with a magnificent thrum, and the rear ramp sealed shut.


    ¡°Recruits, my name is Drill Sergeant Decker. Until I am done with you, you will address me as ¡®sir¡¯ or drill sergeant¡¯. I expect every sentence addressed to me or any other soldier in this man¡¯s corps to end with the proper way to address them. Am I understood, recruits?¡±


    ¡°Yes, drill sergeant.¡± Many of the recruits stuttered.


    ¡°Did twenty years of watery gruel dull your hearing, recruits?! I asked a queston, and I expect an answer! AM. I. UNDERSTOOD?¡±


    ¡°Yes, drill sergeant!¡±


    Drill Sergeant Decker¡¯s mouth formed into a fierce grin at the their acknowledgement, and for the first time in a long time Rino shivered.


    ¡°Excellent. On behalf of Governor Belloti and Duke Akrites, I hereby welcome you to the Nimbian Marine Corps. In the next six weeks, we will turn every snotty, bitchy and cynical specimen among your ranks into a lean, mean fighting machine. Do you understand, recruits?!¡±


    ¡°Yes, drill sergeant!¡±

 Chapter 23 - A most unrepublican envoy

    Growing up as the sole son of a Duke was a¡­unique experience.


    James¡¯ upbringing was characterized by a number of tutors, from the educational establishment¡¯s cream of the crop to famous university professors, military officers and diplomats.


    When compared to some of the other noble scions of the Imperium, who were often made to master a singular subject while ignoring the others, he was taught in a more balanced manner. His father, however, had always wanted his son to be an even better diplomat than he was. As such, he¡¯d spent much of his education following diplomats around the Imperium on the less-important visits, gathering experience as well as friends beyond the dynasty¡¯s border.


    One of those diplomats was Joshua Akrites, of the Polanski branch.


    His step-uncle, though the man had gone to great lengths to establish himself as the uncle. When his father had been away or busy, Joshua had taken care of James like a second father.


    ¡°I bid you good morning, Your Grace.¡± The slightly chubby diplomat bowed as he entered.


    James rose from his seat with a warm smile, ignoring the man¡¯s confusion to deliver a warm hug. There were fewer Akritans in the galaxy now than ever before since the dynasty¡¯s inception; they could afford closer bonds than those of Sovereign and Minister.


    ¡°It¡¯s good to see you on your feet, Uncle.¡± He said, inspecting his closest living relative. ¡°I hear you¡¯ve confounded my medical staff.¡±


    And that was putting it lightly. The doctors had put him in the long-term recovery group; he should¡¯ve woken up in as few as five years, or as many as fifteen. The hyperdrive-induced sensory overload had caused a frankly explosive heart attack; the emergency response team had barely been able to connect his cardiovascular system to an external pump.


    The one beating under his ribs right now wasn¡¯t one bit the same as the one he¡¯d been born with. No, this one was a marvel of cybernetic engineering and flesh-craft, made ever-more-complex by the need to assimilate with a body affected by rejuvenat treatments.


    His uncle shook his head, shrugging his words off. ¡°I got tired of sleeping while you were having all the fun, Your Grace.¡±


    James chuckled at his words. ¡°Good, I like the way you think. I confess, you and the rest of the diplomatic corps are sorely needed.¡±


    The diplomat¡¯s eyes focused like a hawk¡¯s. For all of his friendly, welcoming exterior -the side of himself he showed to family and friends-, his uncle was a diplomat first and foremost. One didn¡¯t rise to his rank without a certain degree of passion, and a whole lot of smarts to back it up.


    ¡°As you might know, Your Grace, I¡¯ve recently been brought up to speed on the last two years¡¯ development¡­though I¡¯d like a more detailed explanation of your goals in the Leonis System. The local polities appear to be useful, if problematic, but they require careful treatment.¡±


    ¡°Certainly, if you¡¯ll give me a moment.¡± James replied, tapping his intercom.


    ¡°How may I help you, Your Grace?¡± The helpful voice of his secretary came out of the speaker.


    ¡°Please send in Colonel Guerr and Commander Hall.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­that kind of treatment.¡± His uncle¡¯s eyes widened in realization.


    The two officers entered the room shortly there-after, taking seats around the mahogany table.


    ¡°Thank you for gathering, everyone.¡± James spoke. ¡°I hope you all understand that this meeting, and all details thereof, are to be considered top secret information. We will be establishing who and what is brought into the fold at a later date. For now, you should all know that I¡¯ve consulted with Commander Hall in one-to-one meetings on the feasibility of such an operation.¡±


    Opening a locked armored drawer using his biometrics, he pulled out a single folder, stamped ¡®TOP SECRET¡¯.


    ¡°This, gentlemen, is Operation Pinocchio.¡±


    ¡ª


    One and a half months after the LRN Tomahawk left Nimbus with James¡¯ proposal of an alliance, the Republican Navy finally sent an envoy to converse with them.


    The first to spot the arrival were a set of surveillance satellites set in the system¡¯s Kuiper Belt, who promptly reported it to the akritan fleet orbiting Nimbus I, a volcanic world and the sole planet of the system. It was there that three of the six former penal stations had been built, mining the ring of asteroids floating around the planet-sized volcano.


    ¡­


    ¡°Admiral on deck.¡± The marine guard reported as James walked into the flag bridge.


    Captain Smith was already there; his tactical officer practically lived inside the chamber.


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    ¡°What¡¯s the scope say?¡± He asked.


    ¡°One cruiser and a pair of destroyers, for leonian standards. Not a threat by any stretch of the imagination, if that¡¯s what they were aiming for.¡± His tactical guru dismissed the envoy¡¯s flotilla.


    James shook his head. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter; I¡¯m not letting anybody saunter into a system of mine without an escort. Which ships can get there the fastest?¡±


    Smith took the barest of a moment to reply. ¡°The Crimson Dawn and Morningstar are returning from a patrol through C5 and C6, roughly ten AU from the Leonis jump point. They¡¯re still burning down an axis close to the jump point, so they need little adjustment; they could make it in as little as twenty-five hours.¡±


    ¡°Good, send them over to give that flotilla an escort to Nimbus-1.¡±


    ¡°Aye sir.¡±


    ¡­


    TO: DD164, DD168


    SENDER: FLEETCOM


    PRIORITY: 2


    ¡®Morningstar¡¯ and ¡®Crimson Dawn¡¯ are to divert from their course. STOP. Intercept and escort Leonian Republican Navy task force to Nimbus-1 orbit. STOP. Navigational data attached. Request clarifications as needed.


    END OF TRANSMISSION


    ¡ª


    Vice Admiral Colombo Perella was, in the words of his late mother, ¡®a noble son of Leonis¡¯. In a word, a noble. Technically he still was, though he would be stupid to demand recognition of that title by the Republican Navy.


    The countess had been a big proponent of the royalist faction even before he¡¯d been born, and her abject hate of republican and democratic sentiments among the commoners was well-known.


    Colombo had taken much after her, like her political acumen and slim build, but the one thing that set them apart was change, or how either of them reacted to it. For while she fought with every morsel of power she had to maintain the powers of the nobility, he could see the kingdom for the sinking ship it was.


    Joining the Republican Navy hadn¡¯t been easy, but his choices were already paying dividends. He was a vice admiral now, and by the stars¡¯ blessing he would retire from the navy a full admiral when the war ended. Regardless of the ideals espoused by the plethora of pro-republican manifestos, the power that the nobility was wielded was sure to end up in the hands of those that had led the revolution¡­and he was one of them.


    By the end of the decade the Perella name would be more powerful than his late mother had ever dreamed, and he would be hailed as a hero of the leonian people.


    Of course, all that demanded the republican navy won the damn war¡­and for that they needed allies. Allies that had been scarce, in stark contrasts to the royalists who¡¯d struck deals with the Concordiat for technology and training.


    So here he was, in the kingdom¡¯s former backyard, to talk with a noble -of all things!- about a potential alliance.


    When the fleet admiral had informed him he would be in charge of the diplomatic mission, Colombo hadn¡¯t been surprised one bit. Many among the highest ranking officers of the navy had mixed opinions about him, with some regarding him as entirely untrustworthy due to his noble origins, an ideological heretic who didn¡¯t believe in republican values. They were right on the latter, though he¡¯d thrown his lot with the republicans before many of the most fervent believers had climbed the totem pole.


    Combine the difficulties caused by his presence among the hallowed halls of the republican admiralty with his noble birth, and he was a prime candidate for talks with a ¡®fellow noble¡¯¡­though he felt the Duke was quite different to those of the same title among the leonian nobility.


    ¡­


    According to the latest reports from NI6, Nimbus was a dump, literally and metaphorically.


    Instead of spending money on costly prisons and reform programs, the kingdom had chosen to populate the system with penal stations. These colonies had only been expanded in the years right before the revolution, with massive influxes of political prisoners whose labor fueled the kingdom¡¯s crumbling economy. The orbitals were ramshackle, built from the cheapest material and equipped with hand-me-downs from the state corporations operating in the Leonis System.


    These stations were still present, if changed, though they were no longer the only man-made constructs of Nimbus.


    ¡°How many ships does that make, lieutenant-commander?¡± Colombo asked his tactical officer.


    ¡°Seven warships and a dozen cargo haulers, along with a pair of fuel ships and a particularly beefy maintenance ship. Counting the hyper-incapable mining craft, we¡¯re breaching twenty. Two to three million tons combined. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands of sailors.¡±


    Hardly a record-breaking number, though that changed when you put everything under the umbrella of a ducal dynasty. Leonian nobility didn¡¯t even have void-faring warships, though the biggest households could claim the loyalty of several high-ranking officers.


    And the warships were hardly small, by any standards. No, these were main or even heavy combatants. Destroyers, cruisers, a heavy cruiser and a battleship. Even more confusing, their transponders all classified them as one class smaller. Colombo had heard of cruisers being classified as ¡®heavy missile destroyers¡¯ to comply with some treaty or another, but never had he seen a kilometer-plus ¡®battlecruiser¡¯.


    Case in point, the pair of ¡®destroyers¡¯ escorting his squadron. They were a hundred and fifty meters bigger than his own organic escorts, and absolutely bristling with armaments. The fast cruiser he¡¯d been given for this mission was barely bigger than them, and he doubted its could outfight the pair even with the assistance of its escorting destroyers.


    ¡­


    It took three days for Colombo¡¯s ships to final enter Nimbus-1¡¯s geosynchronous orbit, during which there was conspicuously little chatter from the akritan side. Meetings were arranged, and the duke himself sent a welcome message via laser-comm, but that was it. Even the discreet inquiries into each former penal station were met with kind but obvious stonewalling.


    Nevertheless, Colombo managed to glean a number of clues from sensor data and intercepted, unencrypted radio chatter.


    The first thing he learned was that the system hadn¡¯t just been ¡®liberated¡¯ by the dynasty. The duke had actually propped up a new government made from locals, though the details on just who and what run the Leonian Free Federation were scarce.


    It didn¡¯t help that most of the chatter was¡­normal.


    Whoever ran the place made sure the entire system was hard at work. The peripheral stations in the Kuiper Belt were seeing significant automation-geared renovations, with mining operations only intensifying. C4, C5 and C6, those stations set up in orbit of Nimbus-1, were actually being ignored in favor of an entirely new, large orbital.


    And sprinkled in between all those, his squadron¡¯s sensors picked up a number of autonomous stations. Sensor platforms, kinetic batteries and swarms of missiles in single-use box launchers, all mounted on or inside asteroids.


    It made for a terrifying image, especially because these specific emplacements had only been spotted because they were under construction, with a plethora of drones and shuttlecraft moving about them .


    Colombo was certain there were thrice as many that his sensors hadn¡¯t picked up on¡­lurking inside the asteroid belt where invaders wouldn¡¯t notice them until it was too late.


    Just what was the duke planning?

 Chapter 24 - Horrors of the Dark

    Northern Frontier - Nakka


    USD : [COMSEC - REDACTED]


    <hr>


    When a person thinks of the Albion Hegemony, specific things come to mind.


    Powerful worlds like Vickers, Albion, or Jamestown with billions of citizens, each an artery in the beating heart of the superpower¡¯s industrial might. Enormous super-dreadnoughts, the likes of which hadn¡¯t been built since the Collapse. The space elevators, molecular printers, and mega-stations were just a few of the installations that the Albion Hegemony oversaw and safeguarded until contact was reestablished with the Domain of Man.


    That particular purpose, to preserve and protect these holdings until the Domain returned, was the singular constant that had kept the Albion Hegemony alive in its darkest hour. Because everyone knew that once the Emergency Council called it quits, the largest stabilizing force in the sector would disintegrate overnight.


    It was this same fundamental principle that allowed the Albion Hegemony to grasp victory from the jaws of defeat two times in its tense history.


    At least, that¡¯s what most people thought.


    ¡ª


    ¡°Commodore on deck.¡± Overhead speakers reported automatically as Commodore Keegan Barker entered the flag bridge of the HNS 3033.


    He walked up to the plot table, surveying the busy chamber. Officers and ratings occupied nearly every console, working on their tasks in silence except for the intermittent reports and orders between superiors and subordinates.


    Barker looked at the plot table, centered around his squadron. To the aft of HNS 3033, the world of Nakka silently buzzed with activity. As the home of the 6th Fleet for the last half-century, Nakka''s population and infrastructure were heavily dependent on the large amount of subsidies granted by the navy by now.


    Some would say these subsidies were beyond the norm for a navy anchorage, but COMSEC tended to handle such chatter swiftly.


    ¡°Are we on track with our timetable?¡± Keegan asked.


    ¡°We are, Commodore. We have twelve hours until we arrive at the jump point." His tactical officer reported.


    "Oh, and a few picoseconds more to get to HX-933.¡± The officer added in a bad attempt at a joke.


    The young commodore grunted in acknowledgment, his intense gaze bolted to the plot. It was hardly his first time going hunting, but it was the deepest he¡¯d ever gone into the Darkness.


    Thankfully, the admiralty had chosen to reinforce his squadron with a cruiser and two heavy frigates, alongside additional logistics ships. All in all, his group consisted of a heavy and regular cruiser, four heavy frigates, and three logistics ships. Nine vessels, totaling several hundred kilotons of steel and thousands of souls, all bound to him and his orders upon the pain of death.


    ¡°Excellent. Let¡¯s hope we return promptly; I¡¯d hate to miss the Union Day celebrations.¡±


    ¡ª


    During the height of the Domain, most of the Persean Sector had been explored and largely colonized. The legendary gates allowed the centralized government to support and keep a close eye on even the furthest colonies of the frontier.


    And where no gates had been established, the Domain ensured anchorages and secure ports were present. Some were deep colonies, which ran their small system-defense navies and maintained enormous logistics hubs that supplied their local subsector. Others were run by the Domain Navy itself, as massive military bases and commissary shops that supported the forefront of explorers seeking the next paradise world scientific goldmine that would enshrine them as part of a growing sector¡¯s aristocracy.


    After the Collapse, the price of maintaining these forward bases was far too great for the nation-states trying to pick up the pieces in the core worlds of the Persean Sector. At first, migration was slow. Historical records show that many hoped the core worlds would find a solution in time and continue the massive subsidies that had kept the expansion rate fast and steady.


    Then the first Persean War came about, and the core worlds turned their focus inwards. The massive logistical infrastructure was all but abandoned, and enormous space stations were stripped of their valuables in a mad dash to evacuate from the crumbling frontier. So fast, chaotic and oft-violent was the evacuation, that records were regularly lost.


    After all, who had time for record-keeping when the core worlds had to deal with millions of refugees, dwindling resources, social unrest, and the new and horrifying prospect of fighting for their very survival?


    Whatever the massive orbital at HX-933 had been, it had been deserted by humans long ago.


    Thermal imaging reported the structure''s temperature close to ambient levels. The side facing the blue supergiant at the system¡¯s center was incredibly hot, while the rest was close to absolute zero. To the average treasure hunter, this artificial carcass had been picked clean and left to collect space dust.


    Thankfully, Keegan was no treasure hunter, and neither were his officers.


    ¡°Sir, we¡¯ve found the anomaly.¡± His tactical officer reported while manipulating the plot to zoom into the enormous orbital.


    It was near the structure''s twilight zone, a thin, roughly circular band of space where the temperature was somewhat normal, that his squadron¡¯s sensors had spotted several zones where the station was emitting heat originating from within.


    ¡°Just as the HEGINT report said.¡± Keegan nodded approvingly, turning to his tactical officer. ¡°Prepare a saturation bombardment fireplan. We¡¯ll slag their infrastructure, and flush out their ships. They¡¯ve got nowhere to hide.¡±


    ¡°Aye sir.¡±


    ¡­


    Hours had passed since the missiles had been launched. Their trajectory and drive shielding, combined with the derelict station¡¯s lack of maneuvering, allowed them to remain hidden for their initial burn before they shut off their engines and cruised on a ballistic course.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Had it been any other enemy, like pirates or the Republic, they would¡¯ve launched ships and missiles the moment the task force arrived in-system. However, Keegan¡¯s task force did not approach the station directly, and instead headed for another jump point while lazily scanning the system for enemies; tricking the tins into thinking they were hidden.


    Only when the missiles lit up their drives for the final sprint did the station react.


    What was previously a barren surface burst into a hive of activity. Kinetic and laser batteries activated, and counter-missiles began leaving their cells by the dozens. Hidden hatches opened and concealed covers exploded off their hinges, exposing radars dishes, and gravidar arrays that screamed into the void.


    ¡°Quite a weak cell.¡± His XO said, stroking his beard. ¡°All the better, really, but the spooks really overestimated the damn cogs in their report.¡±


    ¡°Detecting ship launches.¡± The tactical officer reported, as console operators in the background called out new targets and signatures. ¡°They¡¯re angry now.¡± She chuckled.


    All along the twilight zone, dozens of hidden hangar doors opened. From these hangar bays emerged strange, mismatched ships taken straight out of a shipwright¡¯s deepest fever dreams. There was no point in identifying classes; the hidden foe had none. Yet it was prudent to analyze the hulls, to see where they might¡¯ve originated from.


    The answer to Keegan¡¯s unsaid question soon revealed itself; the clanker ships had no knack for stealth, unlike their hidden bases and shipyards.


    ¡°Civilian hulls; looks like they have Concordiat origins.¡± The astrogation officer hummed, rubbing her smooth chin. ¡°We¡¯ll probably never know; damn corporate types never release those casualties to the public.¡±


    ¡°Still, can¡¯t blame them for bad designs.¡± Keegan said, pulling up the profile of the closest match to what appeared to be the swarm¡¯s ¡®flagship¡¯.


    Lion-class cruisers were true warhorses, emphasizing the Concordiat¡¯s love for railguns and laser batteries over costly missile batteries. They were also featured prominently in the notorious ¡®Gray List¡¯, a collection of all ship classes that could have, by sale or theft, ended up in pirate or terrorist hands. No surprise there; the Concordiat was infamous for selling to anyone and everyone so long as they paid up and didn¡¯t fuck with the relevant Megacorp¡¯s merchant marine.


    ¡°We shouldn¡¯t let them get too close.¡± His XO noted. ¡°Those ships might¡¯ve been sent halfway to the salvage yards, but they still have a lot of their armament¡­and the clankers aren¡¯t ones to shy away from adding extra on top. The missiles we ought to be able to deal with, but if those railguns are loaded with the self-propelled rounds we¡¯re in for a load of pain.¡±


    Keegan nodded in agreement. ¡°Have the squadron turn perpendicular to their intercept course, and launch their missiles. Send two salvos, commander.¡±


    They would have to watch that distance. Those ships might¡¯ve been derelict, but their inertial compensators didn¡¯t need to account for squishy meat bags. They were quick to accelerate and heavily armed scrap heaps. Essentially glass cannons by nature, running on precise calculations and inhumanely fast response times.


    ¡°Aye sir, we¡¯ll serve these bugs a hot¡ª¡±


    ¡°Radar return, bearing one-eight-zero!¡± A console operator shouted, leaning into his screen. ¡°I¡¯ve got ten bandits burning hard for intercept¡­ their acceleration is at three hundred Gs!¡±


    ¡°What are these things?!¡± Keegan asked, completely shocked by their acceleration. Even the fastest known clanker ships didn¡¯t reach two-fifty, and they got slower and slower as they put on more mass.


    ¡°Textbook ambush¡­¡± The tactical officer muttered. ¡°The HEGINT scout ship must¡¯ve rang the alarm bell by accident, they were waiting in the asteroid belt.¡±


    ¡°How did we not spot them?¡± The commodore demanded, turning to the astrogation officer. The woman was rapidly turning white, looking through the raw sensor data with uncanny speed.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t make sense! N-Nobody had this kind of stealth.¡± She stuttered ¡°These are ships, not drones! Gravidar puts their mass above thirty kilotons.¡±


    Only Concordiat Reaper drones were as stealthy, but those devils were less than a thousand tons, and half of that was for their heatsinks!


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter.¡± Keegan raised his voice, compartmentalizing his panic and fear in an imaginary vault deep inside his mind, lock to be opened later. The mental exercise didn¡¯t help much, but every bit counted when so many depended on him.


    ¡°We will fight them. And we¡¯ll send all these scrapheaps tumbling back into the void.¡±


    ¡­


    ¡°Scratch four.¡± The tactical officer muttered, looking at the KIA signature of the last ships among the derelict flotilla. ¡°All derelicts accounted for, sir.¡±


    Keegan smiled, a small part of the weight on his shoulders fading. ¡°Good work, let¡¯s¡ª¡±


    The chamber shuddered violently, distant groans sounding from beyond. They¡¯d been hit somehow.


    ¡°Damage report!¡± He demanded.


    The comms officer¡¯s reply took only seconds to form but it still felt like an eternity. ¡°Damage Control reports several hits along the port side. Shields are down, and it went right through the armor belt.¡± He reported, his lips trembling. Then his expression froze entirely. ¡°Sir¡­Ship 1098 is gone! Susp-Sus¡­¡± The man took a deep breath, steeling himself. ¡°Suspected reactor meltdown, it¡¯s dust.¡±


    Keegan¡¯s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at the absurd report. How was that even possible? The heavy frigate hadn¡¯t been hit once in the entire engagement!


    ¡°What caused this?¡± He ordered, hoping for a favorable answer.


    ¡°Our sensors caught it¡­for a moment. Only a nanosecond really...¡± A morbid chuckle escaped the astrogation officer¡¯s lips, her eyes cold. ¡°It was going very fast. Nearly relativistic velocities, sir.¡±


    ¡°What in the void¡­¡± Keegan muttered. ¡°Are we sure it wasn¡¯t a laser? Some kind of sensor malfunction?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s simply not possible, sir.¡± The tactical officer cut in. ¡°At this range, you would need insane levels of power. No technology allows for beam collimation at these distances, not well enough to crack through an escort¡¯s defenses in a nanosecond. We¡¯d have seen it¡­.oh, dash it all.¡± The man gestured to the plot.


    Keegan turned to look, seeing the signatures of more missiles shooting out of the mystery ships¡¯ launchers. This was their eighth salvo; they had to be close to running out of things to shoot at them¡­right?


    ¡°Launch our counter-missiles.¡±


    ¡°Sir¡­this is our last volley.¡± The tactical officer said, looking at him with resignation. ¡°Are you certain?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Within seconds, counter-missiles shot out from rail launchers among the remaining ships. Just over half of a full volley, the last counter-missiles in the entire squadron. Or what was left of it at least.


    They had been reduced to his heavy cruiser and a pair of frigates and logistics ships by this point. The rest had succumbed to the focused missile and the near-relativistic weapons fire of their opponents, and his squadron was now outnumbered and outgunned nearly three times over. The flagship he was in, a Peacekeeper-class heavy cruiser, had lost its shields and much of its armor, along with swaths of point defenses and missile cells. The rest of his squadron didn¡¯t look any better.


    He couldn¡¯t help but wonder if this was what the admiralty hid from him and all those outside the deep-strike squadrons. After all, how could an enemy be so strong if their forces were only salvaged and captured human hulls, derelicts from exploration, and colony fleets that had ventured too far?


    He concluded this must be what the admiralty was so worried about. He could imagine that if the rank-and-file realized what twisted horrors they were being thrown against, they would start deserting en-masse.


    ¡°Splash fifteen bandits.¡± His tactical officer muttered, snapping Keegan out of the vicious mental spiral.


    Seven missiles had made it through their anti-missile net. Laser batteries all over the battered squadron had opened up the moment friendly fire had left the equation, but the missiles weren¡¯t going down. He watched the plot as they dodged and weaved faster than they could hit them.


    Only three went down by the time the kinetic batteries opened up; massive rotary railguns spewing torrents of tungsten into the void.


    Yet to Commodore Keegan Barker''s horror, their last line of defense proved pointless against the superior foe.


    ¡°Shit, they¡¯re going to¡ª¡±


    The warship was cleaved in twain, a torrent of particles passing through the depleted shields and cracked armor like a hot knife through butter. The lance cracked the main reactor''s containment, spawning a small star inside the cruiser.


    All that remained of the venerable flagship after that brief moment of cosmic violence was hot gas and dust.

 Interludes 3.1 + 3.2

    Rino had always wanted to see the universe. To get on a ship and explore star system after start system, see exotic worlds and alien environments. Such dreams were hardly rare; every child that grew up on scientifically-questionable cartoons wanted to become an explorer.


    Most children never had that wish granted. Space travel was expensive, and space tourism only available to one out of every million people living in the sector.


    Rino was the exception, though his trip had hardly been fun. At just sixteen cycles old, he¡¯d been taken from his home and thrown into a prison barge to Nimbus. His exile-worthy crime? Criticizing the king. One short trial behind closed doors, and with just a single testimony from one of his classmates, and his future was obliterated.


    He¡¯d spent half a decade as a penal laborer, breaking rocks, eating tasteless nutrigruel and sleeping in damp, cramped beds.


    Now, six years after that tear-filled trip on the prison barge, he had travelled on a ship once again. And he wasn¡¯t alone either. Attracted by the prospect of revenge, pay, citizenship and the prospect of becoming something more than an ex-prisoner, nearly nine hundred men and women joined the nascent Federal Marine Corps.


    This time, they boarded the ship willingly. Yet instead of two to three weeks of preliminary training or just loafing about on the passenger ship, they were informed that they¡¯d be sleeping it all away in a cryosleep capsule.


    Of Rino¡¯s group of about fifty recruits, five must¡¯ve quit on the spot. By the time they¡¯d undressed and been given infirmiary-style white gowns to wear during cryosleep, another five washed out.


    One of the recruits had scrounged up the courage to ask the drill sergeant why those who couldn¡¯t stomach cryo didn¡¯t spend the trip awake in cabins. Every recruit had dealt with terrible living standards during their imprisonment; two weeks in a comfy cabin was practically a reward.


    ¡°Because you¡¯ll be deploying from cryo, recruit! What, did you think you¡¯re a special snowflake and  the corps ought to spend the resources to house and feed you for a month or two between deployments?!¡±


    That had settled it. Recruits were given four hours to mentally prepare themselves ¡ªas well as relieve themselves in the loo after some mandatory ¡®go pills¡¯¡ª. Then¡­sleepy time.


    Two and a half weeks later objective time, Rino woke up from his capsule to find out they¡¯d arrived in orbit of the Akritan crownworld. The drill sergeant was quick to ensure the ¡®training platoon¡¯ of fifty relieved themselves of their gowns and donned the off-green uniforms that were given to them.


    After so many years spent wearing beat-up jumpsuits, the uniforms were eagerly accepted. Good boots, good socks and a whole lot of environmental gear that they weren¡¯t supposed to mess with until they were told to. That last part, the drill instructor made sure to say a lot.


    Even with the fearsome man in their midst, many had let out chuckles when a recruit did exactly what he wasn¡¯t supposed to and unwrapped his kit. Heavy coats, ice boots and a whole lot of other gear fell out of the canvas bag and on to the floor. By the minute¡¯s end, fifteen recruits had also dropped to the floor, huffing and puffing as they executed push-ups while the drill sergeant ¡®enriched¡¯ them with another speech about camaraderie and brotherhood.


    Then the time to disembark arrived.


    The same shuttles that had taken them from their respective ex-penal stations now sent them down to Domusec. Instead of descending in a steady spiral, like the more knowledgeable among the recruits said was normal in civilian transorbital trips, the shuttles¡­fell.


    They dropped from a hundred thousand kilometers above like solid ingots, rumbling and shaking all the while. It was fair to say that by the time they landed, every recruit had the experience of orbital descent firmly linked with the stench of puke.


    ¡°Recruits, prepare to disembark!¡± Decker shouted, completely ignoring the puke stains on the floor.


    At his words, the rear ramp dropped to the floor. The recruits were frozen, looking out at the great grassy expanse beyond the landing field.


    Rino knew Sergeant Decker wouldn¡¯t let them sit about for more than a breath or two, but he enjoyed the sight nevertheless. After six long years, he was finally back planet-side.


    ¡°Welcome to Camp Lehey, your home for the next eight weeks.¡± The drill sergeant said, pausing for  a long second before shouting. ¡°What are you looking at?! Move it!¡±


    <hr>


    For most of her rule as Governor, Katrina Polk had low expectations of her colony.


    That wasn¡¯t to say she was a pessimist; realism had been her guiding principle since her first days as a junior executive in the Republic.


    The simple truth was that Polaris had far few prospects beyond mining. It was far from the centers of power and finance, in an area scarcely seen by messenger boats or merchant vessels. Their only neighboring state, the Kingdom of Leonis, had remained staunchly isolationist since cutting ties with the Hegemony, and the Republic itself was fully focused on a dick measuring contest against the latter to give more than a passing glance at its spawn.


    With much toil and luck, maybe the colony would grow enough to see the first generation of children born on polarii soil grow to maturity. Even dreaming about complete self-sufficiency had been out of the question¡­until two and a half cycles ago, when she first met with Duke Akrites.


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    Now Polaris was building one factory after the other, while its mining operations expanded from veisgolt to bulk manufacturing materials like nickel, chromium and aluminum. Even shipyards, like the one she was currently flying towards on her personal shuttle, were being built instead of imagined. For many, it was a heartening picture¡­yet Katrina¡¯s feelings on the matter were bittersweet.


    The Polarii Government had taken no loans from the Duchy¡­yet capital had been given. The price? Stocks.


    Thirty percent of a refinery here, sixty percent of a factory there; even the nascent Blackbird Yards were owned in part by Akritan hands. She had overseen the exchange of stock and currency herself; almost every single company of the akritan defense industry had bought stock, and the Akritan Sovereign Fund itself had pledged hundreds of millions of marks.


    Her idea of a truly independent colony had been well and truly dashed; the Duke effectively controlled half of every new, shiny polarii business. Few people seemed to mind, which made sense; the cost of living was going down and wages were going up. Most were eager to live their lives to their fullest, uncaring about the changes occurring in the grand scheme of things.


    Plus, the ¡®incident¡¯ that had occurred five months ago in Jack¡¯s Point had actually scared the Council into passing a new national security bill. Stars, it had even scared her; an active rebellion would undermine everything they had worked for since the colony¡¯s founding.


    A concentration of semi-automatic firearms like that seen in the rural settlement would never occur again without the government¡¯s knowledge. And if all else failed, the newly-formed and trained Special Intervention Teams of the National Gendarmerie would do what the Akritan shock troops had accomplished half a cycle ago¡­in a significantly milder manner.


    ¡®They might as well have bombed the town hall from orbit for all they left behind¡­¡¯


    Dismissing the thought with a shake of her head, she took one look at the staffers and bodyguards around her and realized they¡¯d arrived.


    ¡ª


    Katrina had walked around the shipyard facilities at the Akritan Bridgehead Station a handful of times in the past few cycles, inspecting the Polarii Navy¡¯s orders at various stages of their construction, outfitting and repairs. The Akritans ran a tight shop, what one Miss Kim Sun-hee liked to call ¡®Applied Chaos¡¯.


    As she walked around the completed sections of the Blackbird Yards, she saw both similarities and differences.


    Money was tighter, manpower less so.


    That meant less robots and drones flying, crawling or walking about, and more men and women dressed in hazard-pattern construction gear and vacsuits. Yet robots, once considered far too expensive for Polaris to use in construction, were still in use.


    The vast majority were so-called ¡®hexabots¡¯, waist-high droids with six articulated legs equipped with magnetic soles. Some carried arc welders, rivet guns, or any of a dozen other heavy tools, while others ferried materials, keeping critically-thinking human labor equipped and supplied to work all day, every day, three hundred and sixty days a cycle. They were also better at working in vacuum that even trained human workers; combined robotic and machine labor was able to complete interior and exterior components at similar speeds, thus leaving few areas in limbo between full operation and constructions.


    Yet construction was cheaper, obviously so.


    Grav-plating was set to only half instead of the normal three quarters of standard gravity, which meant the shipyards only had to employ three instead of four fusion reactors. It also made movements clunkier, though the work crews were quick to pick up on how to turn that to their advantage and mitigate the problems of low gravity.


    Onboard facilities were also significantly reduced. The Bridgehead Yards manufactured most parts in-house inside the station¡¯s zero-gee spinal compartments, in massive 3D printers and auto-lathes, where the micro-gravity allowed high-precision manufacturing and rapid turnaround from raw materials to assembled components. Blackbird¡¯ financial constraints meant that only the most mass-heavy components were manufactured on-site. Complicated mechanical and electrical components were shipped from factories on the surface of Polaris.


    That was already¡­causing issues.


    Sure, the Yards didn¡¯t need an additional hundred million marks now, but the cost of building even the most basic patrol boat ¡ªinferior to the Reliance-class boats¡ª had gone from thirty-five to forty-two million dollars, or just above twenty million akritan marks. It didn¡¯t take a mathematician to realize those costs would balloon way beyond the hundred million in savings. They were effectively shifting the cost to the ships themselves, and that would bite them in the ass...but it also meant they''d be getting ships --lesser quality, but still ships-- sooner.


    ¡ª


    ¡°Beautiful, isn¡¯t she?¡± The Yards¡¯ chief engineer asked, a grin evident on her face.


    They were staring out of a high-fidelity viewscreen at woman¡¯s tiny on-site office. Katrina hardly minded the lacking space; she was entirely focused on the growing metal skeleton hovering inside the shipyard¡¯s barebone cradle.


    ¡°That she is.¡± Katrina agreed. ¡°How is construction proceeding?¡±


    The chief engineer let out a sigh. ¡°Quickly, but I suspect not quickly enough for what you¡¯ve got planned.¡±


    ¡°And what might that be?¡± She asked, raising an eyebrow.


    ¡°The war, duh.¡± The woman replied, her lips forming into a cheeky grin. ¡°With all due respect, ma¡¯am, it¡¯s a rather open secret. The akritans already finished their work in Nimbus, but I¡¯m hearing about more logistics ships ferrying materiel to the system. Missiles, mines, sailors; there are even rumours about a new unit of nimbian marines being trained on Domusec. It¡¯s pretty clear that the Duke is going for Leonis, and I¡¯d stake my job on us following.¡±


    Katrina looked at the engineer in silence for several seconds, before her shoulders slacked. ¡°Well¡­you got it one.  I suppose we won¡¯t have these missile boats ready by, say, the next month or three?¡±


    ¡°No chance.¡± The engineer shook her head. ¡°The earliest the navy is getting its hands on them is eighteen months, and that¡¯s only because we¡¯re kitting them out with inferior sensor packages in the first place. Even then, the line for getting said packages is long. The Akritans are building some spooky stuff of their own in Bridgehead One, and that¡¯s siphoning away almost every bit of advanced electronics their lithography shops can make. Ours are not even close to on par, and won¡¯t be useful in military applications for the next three or four cycles.¡±


    There was no going around it; both polarii and akritan defense projects were straining their respective nations¡¯ resources to their limits. Even with more factories and mines coming online every week, Polaris still relied on akritan manufacturing for the most advanced components, and would continue to do so for a long time.


    Nevertheless, Katrina was proud of how far her nation had come so far¡­even if the akritans had paid for half of everything.


    Just three cycles ago, building an orbital shipyard had been little more than an outlandish idea best left to one¡¯s dreams. Now, the Blackbird yards were real, and they would be complete in just another cycle. Sure, the current layout was small, and unlike the ever-expanding Bridgehead Yards it would remain so for many cycles to come. But this was good enough. Blackbird¡¯s final form would be able to produce the basis of a proper navy; patrol boats, frigates and maybe even destroyers.


    More so, it would allow them to establish a merchant navy. With cheap hyperdrive fuel coming from Akritan antimatter refineries, they would be able to jumpstart their mercantile ambitions in a way most nations could not.

 Chapter 25 - Meet and Greet

    Diplomatic talks were set to begin on the new station being constructed in orbit of Nimbus-1.


    The construct looked fairly simple, with habitation rings and dockyards around a tubular central axis. The top and bottom of said axis ended in thick rings, bearing the beginnings of weapons batteries, sensor masts, and shield generators.


    ¡°A substantial investment, is it not?¡± He asked.


    ¡°Depends on the inside.¡± His chief of staff replied, tracing the edges of his manicured beard. ¡°The superstructure ought to cost a fat lira, but the machinery he puts inside will determine the final price tag.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s probably gutting the old stations¡¯ internals.¡± His intelligence officer offered. ¡°We¡¯re seeing a lot of heavy lifter traffic between the four orbitals, and their heat signature is getting smaller and smaller by the day.¡±


    Colombo¡¯s eyebrows jumped at that.


    ¡°Smart, though there is a lot to be said about the quality. According to what scant few records we have, they were built on a shoestring budget.¡±


    ¡°He could be refurbishing the machines before putting them to work in the new station, sir.¡± The intelligence officer countered. ¡°New air filters, cleaner reactor fuel, stronger water pumps¡­the works. For all we know, his men are salvaging the machines for the few useful components they have and building the rest from scratch.¡±


    Either way, such an investment of time, money, and human resources showed, once again, that the Duke wasn¡¯t just another warlord. He must¡¯ve had support of substantial industry back in his home system, or some method to earn hard currency.


    That realization filled Colombo with a strange feeling. The Duke may prove to be the ally the Republican Navy needed all along, and that brought him immense hope. Yet deep in his mind he knew, that the greater the Duke¡¯s offerings¡­the greater the price.


    ¡ª


    Minister Joshua Akreites patiently waited at the hangar, surrounded by the welcoming committee assembled for the Leonian envoy. The welcoming arrangements were lean, mean, and militaristic; the perfect kind of advertisement for an alliance-seeking rebel group. A platoon of marines had been assembled in full regalia, while banners showing the Akritan and Nimbian insignia had been erected along the walls.


    The welcoming committee itself consisted of Joshua himself, Governor Luka Belloti, the newly promoted Captain Julian Webb ¡ªhis nephew¡¯s former logistics officer¡ª and Commander Pike, the navy¡¯s attach¨¦ to the foreign ministry.


    Webb had received a promotion to full commander right after Nimbus¡¯s liberation, and he was one of the first officers to be ¡®loaned¡¯ to the Federal Navy. The nascent military organization had next to no officers, aside from a couple of more agreeable ex-wardens and former royal navy officers who¡¯d been sent over as political prisoners.


    Unfortunate as the situation might be for their ally, Joshua knew it played in the dynasty¡¯s favor. They¡¯d already shipped the first batch of officer candidates to the newly built naval academy at Bridgehead Station on Pollux, where they would receive training in Akritan naval doctrine. Just as with the Polarii Navy, the Federal Navy would form close ties with the Duke¡¯s.


    ¡®And that¡¯s not even the full extent of my nephew¡¯s plans. Truly, we raised him well.¡¯


    Joshua and his brother-in-law had been firm believers in the value of realpolitik, constrained as their ambitions may have been under the rigid political system of Nova Roma. To see the man they¡¯d raised adopt their philosophy, and put it to use in such a volatile, fertile environment¡­ filled his cybernetic heart with pride.


    ¡ª


    ¡°Contrammiraglio?¡± A voice awakened Colombo.


    ¡°Mm, yes?¡± He muttered, looking around as he realized he¡¯d fallen asleep in his seat.


    Looking towards the voice¡¯s origin, Colombo found one of his bodyguards looking at him.


    The woman wore her ¡®dress blues¡¯, a hastily assembled dress uniform the Fleet Admiral himself commissioned for the first anniversary celebrations of Independence Day. Silver buttons and rank insignia decorated the Republican Navy¡¯s dark blue synthfiber instead of the Veisgolt insignia and decorations used in royalist uniforms.


    ¡°We¡¯re about to arrive at Victoria Station, sir. If you would please prepare yourself for the reception ceremony.¡±


    ¡°You have my thanks.¡± Colombo acknowledged dusting and straightening his uniform, while glancing about the pinnace.


    The transport craft was among the equipment ¡®liberated¡¯ from the royal navy during the opening days of the Revolutionary War, and as such built to a higher standard of comfort than more modern examples built in republican factories and shipyards. That meant springier, wider seats, totaling just sixteen to republican shuttlecrafts¡¯ eighteen to twenty.


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    As he looked about, he found the rest of his diplomatic team was also getting ready for disembarkation. These were more than just officers; they¡¯d been selected for their expertise in diplomacy, intelligence, strategy, and economics to aid in the upcoming negotiations. Hopefully, they¡¯d be enough to ensure the republic got a good deal out of the duke.


    ¡­


    <Docking procedure complete, pressure equalized>


    The pilot¡¯s voice sounded from the intercom, appraising the passengers of their landing at the designated hangar bay.


    One marine checked the sensors just outside the door before nodding back and confirming that the environment outside was breathable. Though the variety of safeties and handshake protocols between station and pinnace would warn both crew and passengers in the unlikely case they tried to disembark into the vacuum, manually checking basic sensors worked wonders in reassuring everyone that they were not, in fact, about to have the very air sucked out of their lungs.


    The door opened with a hiss, unfolding into a staircase as it touched down on the gritty hangar floor.


    Colombo took a deep breath, his lips forming into a well-practiced smile as he walked into view of the hangar. His eyes scanned the large chamber, taking in the conditions inside the station and the various decorations.


    Soldiers dressed in formal black and gold uniforms flanked the path to the welcoming committee, marked by a red carpet. Large crimson banners covered the walls, some emblazoned with the golden avian of the Akritan Dynasty, while others bore six silver stars.


    The latter made him flinch; why in the stars did Nimbus have its own flag?


    He dismissed the thought, suppressing a frown; now was not the time.


    Where a band might¡¯ve usually welcomed him during his days as an officer in the Royal Navy, music played from the hangar¡¯s speakers. Marching music, he soon realized; nothing else had such a strong, yet regular tempo. Not his regular cup of tea, but he kept up the smile. It wasn¡¯t bad¡­just different.


    Twenty steps between armed and proud-looking marines later, He arrived in front of the welcoming committee with his team in tow.


    ¡°Contrammiraglio Perella, I assume?¡± The chubby man at the center asked, reaching out for a handshake with a smooth, confident smile. ¡°I¡¯m Minister Polanski-Akrites, Akritan Ministry of Foreign Affairs.¡±


    ¡®This must be the second in command.¡¯ Colombo thought, firmly clasping the man¡¯s hand. ¡°You assume correctly, Minister. Thank you for the warm welcome.¡±


    ¡°Think nothing of it, Contrammiraglio.¡± The Minister said, shaking his head lightly. ¡°Ah, where are my manners? Allow me to introduce you to these fine men over here.¡±


    As he turned to face the three men, the minister introduced the first. ¡°It is my pleasure to introduce Governor Luka Belloti, chief executive of the Nimbian Free Federation.¡±


    ¡®Ah, they¡¯re trying to make him look important.¡¯ Colombo thought, looking at the man dressed in a simple long-sleeved tunic and cargo pants.


    He expected to find near-vacant or wandering eyes, but they were sharp as a blade. Was this a puppet, or an earnest collaborator? Colombo decided he would take the ¡®Governor¡¯ seriously¡­for now.


    ¡°Ah, a fellow Leonian. How do you do, Governor?¡± He clasped the man¡¯s hand.


    The governor¡¯s eyes twitched at his mention of their shared ancestry.


    Colombo saw it but said nothing. Now was not the time to play on the ¡®patriotism¡¯ card¡­especially with people who might hold a grudge for their unique terms of imprisonment by the kingdom.


    ¡°Quite well and getting better every day.¡± Belloti curtly replied, his handshake tightening before he let go.


    Colombo sent back some boilerplate reply, but his mind was caught on the issue of Nimbus¡¯s loyalty.


    The stations had been running for decades; there had to be a sizeable number of children whose first taste of freedom was served on an Akritan plate. It was a¡­ worrisome situation.


    ¡°Here is Captain Julian Webb of the Federal Navy, the commander of Victoria Station.¡±


    The captain was young, and definitely not Leonian. His skin was paler, and his facial features more defined. No, this man was Akritan. A transfer, then?


    ¡°You¡¯ve assembled quite a sight for the eyes, Captain. I¡¯m sure your station will look marvelous by the date of its completion.¡± He complimented the captain, gesturing around the hangar.


    Captain Webb smiled at his compliment. ¡°I¡¯m just the face of the operation, sir, but thank you on behalf of my engineers and work crews. I hope you have a productive stay.¡±


    ¡°As do I, Captain.¡± Colombo honestly replied, turning to the last man.


    Hardly anything to note about the captain, except that he seemed rather passionate about his work. He didn¡¯t look or speak like a political animal. That particular ¡®feature¡¯ was far more common with officers born to the purple, like himself.


    Colombo¡¯s noble upbringing and his past socialization with men and women of equal social rank meant he¡¯d been knee-deep in politics since he could walk. Yet during his tenure in the Republican Navy, he¡¯d learned that most of the officers, especially those below flag rank, were apolitical¡­save for their hate of anything related to royalty or nobility.


    That thought made him frown, as he considered just how many among the navy would have an adverse reaction to hearing of an alliance with another hereditary monarch in a revolution against the nobility. It was only a passing thought; he couldn¡¯t let his host wait. In any case, victory would drown out the nay-sayers.


    ¡°¡ªis Commander Pike, the foreign ministry¡¯s naval attach¨¦.¡±


    ¡°A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Commander.¡± Colombo shook the man¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Likewise, Contrammiraglio.¡± A steady, inflectionless voice replied, pronouncing his formal title to perfection.


    The officer screamed ¡®naval intelligence¡¯, with a picture-perfect smile that never reached his appraising stare. There was no unconscious movement, no twitches or micro-expressions. His face was downright serene¡­and that made Colombo feel a bone-chilling realization.


    ¡®The duke has spooks.¡¯


    Training a navy was ¡®easy¡¯. Building big ships and infrastructure ¡®just¡¯ needed money. You could do both with just time and money. Running an intelligence agency? That needed some insane dedication. The kind that was usually borne out of ideological fervor¡­or absolute loyalty.


    ¡°Contrammiraglio,¡± The minister called his attention. ¡°If you would please follow me, the Duke has arranged for us to talk over dinner, and is awaiting our presence.¡±


    ¡°Very well, Minister. Lead the way.¡±

 Chapter 26 - The hand that feeds

    Union Station, Nimbus-1 | Nimbus Star System


    <hr>


    The duke exuded confidence. He wore a clean, wholehearted smile and an officer¡¯s uniform, obviously dressed to impress, yet in a manner more similar to the Fleet Admiral than the preening aristocrat-officers of the Royal Navy.


    ¡°A pleasure to make your acquaintance, contrammiraglio.¡± He said, standing up from his seat at the head of the dining table to clasp his hand.


    Colombo was almost relieved to hear him pronounce the title imperfectly; having complete foreigners possess perfect pronunciation when speaking his language was¡­uncanny.


    ¡°A sentiment I share, Your Grace.¡±


    The two parties spent several minutes reintroducing themselves for the duke''s benefit. The charismatic sovereign shared few but memorable words with each of Colombo¡¯s subordinates, appearing genuinely curious instead of polite.


    With the short introduction session over, the ten men and women sat down at the large wooden table¡­to eat.


    ¡°I hope you are all hungry.¡± The duke said, clapping his hands. ¡°You were lucky enough to arrive when you did; a resupply convoy arrived only a week before you. Logistics were tight during the first few weeks, as Captain Webb can attest to. Still, Governor Belloti¡¯s team has done marvelous work setting up several aeroponics and synthetic protein cultivation facilities. As such, we managed to fit in a few more delicacies.¡±


    ¡®Impressive.¡¯ Colombo thought, though he took the noble¡¯s words with a heavy grain of salt.


    The logistical, technological, and military capabilities of his dynasty certainly appeared impressive, but they had no inside source in the Pollux system. The kingdom would¡¯ve surely cultivated some, had the system¡¯s inhabitants been of some interest. Yet only three cycles ago, Pollux was populated by a few hundred thousand miners living in an icy dump, and the late king hadn¡¯t been all too eager to engage in trade with a republican mining colony and draw the renewed ire of the Hegemony.


    How could they have known that a barracuda would rear its head out of that dumpster?


    The smell of a rich broth quickly dispelled Colombo¡¯s musings, making him salivate. The entire table turned as one to look at the kitchen-side entrance to the dining room.


    A dozen servers dressed in formal suit-and-tie brought in trolleys of food. Coming right behind them, a woman dressed in the white linens of a chef walked up to the table with a smile.


    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.¡±


    The servers placed small ceramic bowls in front of each person, filled with a thick soup. The plate underneath was just large enough to fit in the bowl, as well as two golden buns. As Colombo took in the wonderful smell, he smiled.


    ¡°Today¡¯s appetizer is a bisque, made with local freshly harvested lobster and brandy generously donated from his Grace¡¯s personal stock. The garnishing comes from a polarii greenhouse; saffron, nutmeg, and white pepper. The bread buns are from the finest of akritan flour, grown and milled in Cradle Valley.¡±


    The dining began as they all enjoyed the balanced spices and savory lobster meat, ensconced in the mellow brandy. Colombo would have no complaints if the dinner ended here; had the circumstances been different he would¡¯ve eagerly asked for seconds. In place of that, he was quick to voice his curiosity as they finished the bisque.


    ¡°If I may voice an inquiry, Your Grace?¡±


    ¡°Certainly.¡±


    ¡°This¡­Cradle Valley, where the flour for these wonderful buns originated from.¡± Inspecting the flowery stencil impressed into the bread during baking, he said, ¡°It must be a greenhouse facility of some size, to grow enough grains to feed an entire dynasty. As I understand, you¡¯ve yet to import foodstuffs from elsewhere.¡±


    The duke¡¯s lips formed into a knowing smile.


    ¡°Greenhouse, contrammiraglio? No, Cradley Valley is an actual valley on my crown world, Domusec. By the latest reports, over three hundred square kilometers are being cultivated, with more on the way.¡±


    ¡°Then¡­you¡¯ve terraformed the planet,¡± Colombo said, more a statement than a question.


    There was no other conclusion; the planet the duke was referring to was supposed to be a dump. No oxygen, frozen oceans, and downright terrible resource deposits. Terraforming was possible, but only superpowers like the Hegemony could afford the cost.


    ¡°It¡¯s a work in progress, but certain select areas are already habitable. I expect the process to be done in three or four cycles.¡± Duke Akrites replied as if it was the most normal thing in the entire damned universe.


    ¡­


    More than an hour later, Colombo had seen his expectations blown again and again.


    First, the appetizer and the shocking confirmation that had come from the Duke himself. Then, the main course was served.


    ¡°Herb-crusted, free-range beef tenderloin, with a honey mead reduction.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t the beef tenderloin itself that had shocked them, but just where it had come from. It had only taken a question, answered by the foreign minister, to find out that Domusec¡¯s terraforming had advanced to such a degree that the Akritans could release cattle in certain areas to graze. Graze.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    In the Hegemony ¡ªthe real Hegemony, not its many proxies¡ª, well-known for its high standard of living, to eat meat that had not come out of a vat, but from a free-ranging animal that lived in wild, vast areas of terraformed land, was a luxury reserved for the elite. For most people, free-range meat was a luxury only seen in entertainment videos and read about in books.


    Then, of course, you had the honey. Not synthetic honey, because that was easy enough to make in a food laboratory with carbohydrates, water, and flavoring. No, this was the real thing. Real honey, from real bees that lived in their little apiaries on Domusec.


    Colombo was among the lucky few Leonians to have had access to honey back before the revolution. Not even half the population could afford the sweet substance, and that was in a terraformed world. Not a paradise world, like Albion, but Solomon was paradise compared to a whole lot of dustballs colonized by free-minded madmen.


    Nowadays, he ate synth-honey and liked it. The Republican Navy might have a lot of industrial resources, but its food stocks were extremely limited. Only a handful of hydroponics and aeroponics facilities, as well as synthetic protein factories, fed over half a million. Only strict rationing and a diet of calorie-rich vegetables, synth-protein, and chemically synthesized micronutrients made this possible.


    To add salt to the wound, the dessert arrived.


    ¡°Lavender honey pavlova, topped with berries.¡±


    Fruit was a luxury in any place. Fresh fruit in a system that only grew the occasional mushroom was a downright miracle. Yet the ¦¡kritans seemed hellbent on being labeled as miracle men.


    According to the chef, the variety of berries ¡ªblackberries, blueberries, raspberries, and strawberries¡ª hadn¡¯t been flown in from Domusec. Because even the Akritans had limits, an idea that made Colombo nearly chuckle.


    Nay, the logistics ship had brought in a portable aeroponics facility, to produce fruits for the system. A lofty proposition, and an expensive one to boot, but it would make one hell of a morale booster if implemented successfully.


    Ideologists could say whatever the hell they wanted about their ideals and politics. In truth, the best way to win the loyalty of a people¡ªespecially one that had been served nutrigruel for decades¡ªwas by appealing to their hunger. Colombo was certain that the duke knew this, and he was already capitalizing on it. If he made sure the locals knew whose was the hand that fed them, he would have their allegiance, ancestry be damned.


    ¡ª


    After everybody had their fill of exquisite food and drink, the chef bid her goodbyes and the servers removed their plates, leaving Colombo, the Duke, and their subordinates alone. They provided each man and woman with water and a small shot glass of citrus-scented liquid.


    Colombo curiously inspected the glass, but the Duke was quick to explain before he asked about its purpose.


    ¡°Under normal circumstances, I would consider it a waste to rid ourselves of the liqueur¡¯s aftereffects. I¡¯m sure, however, that every lady and gentleman in this room would like to be rid of alcohol before we get started.¡±


    ¡®Ah, a resobrio tonic.¡¯ Colombo realized, thinking back on the enzyme cocktail his mother would take before going to parties. ¡°A most proper drink for times like these, Your Grace.¡±


    He drank the lemony cocktail in one shot, his subordinates quickly following in his lead. The last person to set down the glass was the Duke himself, who¡¯d slowly consumed the contents with mild hesitation. That made Colombo feel¡­worried. Had the man given them poison?


    The rear admiral¡¯s agitation must¡¯ve been evident, for the Duke had let out a small chuckle the moment after.


    ¡°Worry not, contrammiraglio. My slowness is not born of fear of poison, but the knowledge that a part of my inheritance is gone. This bottle of brandy was one of a few my late father gifted to me, many years ago.¡± The sovereign said, shaking his head. ¡°But now is not the time for me to bore you with family history. Let us¡­¡±


    ¡ª


    ¡°¡­begin.¡±


    James looked at the republican rear admiral, keeping his expression neutral. ¡°Contrammiraglio, would you be so kind as to give me and my team an introduction?¡±


    The Leonian nodded, turning and gesturing to one of his deputies. Within moments the woman -his flag lieutenant according to the insignia on her uniform- produced a thin projector, which she placed at the center of the table. Pulling out a tablet, she tapped against its screen.


    As the projector powered on, an intricate holographic map appeared just above the table¡¯s surface.


    ¡°This is the Leonis system, our home.¡± The admiral began. ¡°Though there are richer systems in the sector¡¯s core worlds, I daresay that before the rise of the Red Prince, it was among the richest. Our oldest historical records, dating back to fifteen cycles before the Collapse, indicate that the original colonists hoped to enrich themselves by exporting volatiles and transplutonics through a Gate to the industrial heartland of¡­¡± He paused, looking at James¡¯ uncle.


    ¡°Yes, Minister?¡±


    ¡°Apologies for interrupting, contrammiraglio, but I am curious about the Gate. Do your logs indicate what happened to it during the collapse?¡±


    Perella paused, before smiling. ¡°Ah, I¡¯m afraid I forgot about the dynasty¡¯s special¡­circumstances. To answer your question, Minister, they do not. Not for lack of record-keeping, but because the Gate was slated to arrive after the date of the Collapse.¡±


    His uncle nodded, rubbing his beard. ¡°Gratitude for answering my query. Please, continue.¡±


    ¡°Very well. Where was I¡­ah, yes. The original colonies planned to export volatiles and transplutonics to the core worlds. As you can see,¡± He gestured to the outer half of the system. ¡°Our system contains three gas giants and two ice worlds, as well as a particularly dense asteroid belt separating the inner system from the rest. That has allowed Leonis and its inhabitants to sustain themselves as a regional powerhouse since before the collapse and until today. It is also a boon and a bane, for both us and the royalists.¡±


    ¡°I suspect it must be rather defensible,¡± James spoke up.


    Admiral Perella nodded. ¡°Quite so, Your Grace. Our Republican Navy was quick to spread out and shelter in the shadow of the gas giants and their many moons, particularly Leonis IV, home of 1st Fleet and Capitol Station. The many asteroids, moons and the giants themselves confuse long-range missiles and the lack of lines-of-sight does wonders against kinetic bombardment. It is also quite easy to hide weapons batteries -anything from a box launcher full of missiles to a full battery of capital-class railguns-, until such a time as the royalists become easy targets. Unfortunately, we are not the only ones benefitting. I¡¯m sure Your Grace understands.¡±


    James nodded, grimacing. ¡°I suppose it¡¯s rather hard shooting at the royalists through that asteroid belt.¡±


    ¡°You would be most correct.¡± Perella nodded, his expression darkening. ¡°This asteroid belt, known as Leonardo¡¯s Wall, has protected the garden world of Solomon, the homeworld of the Leonian people, for centuries. Much of the pre-revolution naval budget went to weapons batteries, listening posts, and hidden anchorages inside the Wall. By themselves, static defenses are ill-matched against a proper fleet, yet the royalists are most adept at using quick-reaction units to counter any advance, which would have to cross several AUs of ¡®no man¡¯s land¡¯ between the Ring of Giants and the Wall itself.¡±


    ¡°A most unfortunate stalemate, you have found yourselves in.¡± His uncle lamented. ¡°Though, there is the matter of industry to consider. Even the most powerful orbital would struggle to defend itself without ammunition or power. Which where, I believe, we come in.¡±

 Announcement

    I''ve been holding off on pulling the band aid for a week now, but I realize this does you, my readers, no justice.


    In an expected yet surprising turn of events, life has gotten very busy. University is tough; I barely got good grades last semester, and I''m not about to wing it a second time by not studying properly. I have a circle of friends and loved ones to keep up with every day. Personal projects, some of which are tied to harsh deadlines, have gobbled up what little time I had left to spare.


    Life is good; no doubt about it. I have very few regrets, and lots of things and people that bring me joy.


    Unfortunately, life''s also too packed to fit the hours necessary to maintain a consistent writing schedule.


    I tend to write slower than most authors on this platform, which means it takes me about three to five hours to write a chapter of E2F, in addition to whatever pre-planning I need to do. Kingdom-building, politics and economical uplifting are insanely good to write about, but they are also an unforgiving bitch if you mess up, so you need long-term planning and good execution to maintain a logic-based plot.


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    In line with that conclusion, Exiled to the Future and my less popular story Tread and Sword are going on hiatus, at the very least until March 31st, when one aforementioned deadline is set to expire.


    I can promise nothing, but I hope to return as soon as possible.


    Even the harshest of critics among you have been nothing but helpful, and I am thankful for all of you.


    Special thanks to:


    Xotos750 (My first, and harshest, critic),


    Shadowdracul


    CyberSorceress


    ManiToth


    RandomPerson666 (Who I believe has commented on every single chapter)


    Jasus


    Skrublord


    Drayno


    XCoyKoiX


    Lapochka8 (Who rushed to write an excellent review when they saw I had so few)


    Epsilon


    Goolic


    Sininen